I, the Reality Janitor!

"Wait—so that kid didn't just get lucky once, but multiple times?"

The range manager snatched his binoculars with trembling hands. Through the lenses, his eyes ballooned like startled bullfrogs. "Six hits on an over-distance target?!"

His voice cracked mid-sentence. Twenty shots total—twenty!—and nearly a third found their mark at 500 meters? This wasn't some military shooting range crawling with snipers. Police officers could throw decent punches, but precision shooting? That was unicorn territory.

"Three..." He counted on nicotine-stained fingers. "Maybe four marksmen in the entire capital's police force could pull this off. That fresh-faced brat looks younger than my morning coffee! Was he cradling pistols instead of rattles as a baby?"

Opposite him, the policewoman's brow furrowed at his Chihuahua-in-a-hurricane demeanor. "Relax," she deadpanned, holstering her judgmental glare. "Not here to bust hobbyists. As long as he doesn't play cowboy during duty hours..." Her shrug could've chilled champagne.

"Uh? Right! Absolutely!" The manager's ears burned crimson, recalling his earlier trash talk with coworkers. Their jokes about "clueless rich kids wasting ammo" now echoed like cannon fire in his skull.

That kid hadn't been bluffing about the 500-meter target - he'd brought the skills to back it up! Meanwhile, we played the "wise elders" card, lecturing like grumpy uncles at a BBQ. Change to half-range! You'll never hit anything! Ugh. Our arrogance could fill a stadium.

"Uh...right...we'll just..." The manager's boots suddenly fascinated him. He retreat-crawled toward the target shed, movements mimicking a wind-up toy with rusty gears.

The policewoman flipped through the registration log, manicured nail freezing on fresh ink. "Last user...Leon...Leon Lyon?"

Her perfectly groomed brows formed a delicate crease. Lyon. That surname tasted like expensive chocolate and inherited scandals. "Another Lionheart duchy brat playing cop?"

Dawn's first blush found Leon crunching frost-crisped leaves. Autumn wind slapped his cheeks like a sassy ex - fitting, since his bed still held warm impressions of their passionate breakup.

Old Soldiers' Alley to City Hall: 3.7 miles of pure regret. His alarm clock's betrayal still stung. Who needs enemies when you've got legs determined to walk through molasses?

As for the tram? Please. Those "public" carriages charged three coppers per mile - basically a sign screaming Peasants Keep Out! Half the capital's residents could starve for a week on his monthly transport fees.

Leon's Sanitation Bureau salary - 60k coppers annually! - technically qualified him for tram rides. But "Gort" cigarettes for Mr. Blacksheep devoured funds like a dragon hoarding gold. Three silver wheels per pack? Two gold wheels' field allowance vanished faster than donuts at a cop convention.

He hugged his threadbare coat tighter. Subzero winds versus empty wallet? Frostbite won this round. Besides, walking offered perks - like justifying that steaming cuppa guilt.

"Regular brew. Dry toast."

The coffee shack's bell jingled like a miser's chuckle. Leon folded into his usual corner, scarf unwinding like a cashmere-deprived serpent. Behind the counter, Old Marlow's mustache twitched. Click went the secret ham drawer - aromatic warfare commenced.

"Buuuutter?" The vendor sang, wafting cured meat vapors. "Haaaam?"

Leon's resolve melted faster than snowflakes on radiator grates. Basic breakfast: 0.5 coppers. Butter upgrade: 1.0. Ham-induced happiness: 2.0.

Two coppers - the exact tram fare he'd saved by trekking 5km. This wasn't breakfast. This was an economic obstacle course where carbs always won.

But...

The siren song of cholesterol proved overwhelming. "No" dissolved like sugar in hot milk, its consonants sticking to his palate. Buttercream whispers twirled with sizzling pork fat ballet dancers - his principles never stood a chance.

"Slow day," the vendor crooned, rearranging his "innocent grandpa" expression. His spatula hovered over dwindling ham stocks like a game show host's microphone. "Special for regulars - half-copper discount? Help me clear inventory?"

Leon's wallet whimpered. His survivalist logic sparkled with the desperation of rent week: Three days till payday...eight gold wheels incoming...Redhead's bar tab barely makes a dent...

"Double butter!" The surrender came out more aggressive than intended. "And - and heavy on the sauce!"

The grill hissed in approval. Marlow's "last slice" theatrics belonged on opera stages. Each glug of secret-recipe glaze mirrored Leon's soul bleeding coppers. That marinated pork hitting stone? That was the sound of his tram fare being devoured by delicious flames.

Leon forcibly averted his gaze from the twin copper discs heating on the stone slab, their molten glow uncomfortably reminiscent of recent nightmares. To quell his rising nausea, he cleared his throat and addressed the vendor with deliberate casualness.

"Your name, sir?"

"Charle. Like Charle Emporium's Charle." The marketplace veteran responded with practiced cheerfulness, his weather-beaten face crinkling into what passing citizens might mistake for genuine warmth. "Spare the formalities, young master. Old Charle'll do."

Charle Emporium... Charle Company?

The realization struck like ice water. This was the same vermin-ridden corporation that had poisoned the municipal waterlines with fecal runoff! Visions flooded back - hospital corridors choked with writhing patients, Anna's weak smile through the stench of disinfectant, the ceaseless cacophony of agony that still haunted his nights.

His knuckles whitened around the market stall's edge. Hundreds remained bedridden in Red Brick District alone, their cure dangled beyond reach by fifty-fold inflated antidiarrheal prices. Even his full-year wages couldn't purchase adequate vials of the specialized antitoxins. And for every moaning soul in those infirmary hellscapes, a hundred more suffered silently in tenement shadows - the true toll of this corporate plague numbering in the tens of thousands.

Only one malignant mercy tempered the disaster: the contagion demanded direct contact with tainted effluvia. So long as citizens avoided the miasmic clouds rising from befouled cesspools, the majority might yet escape this particular circle of hell.

The plague's cruel irony lay in its persistence - this sewage-born scourge demanded alchemical serums for cure. Yet in Old District's squalor, even basic remedies cost half a year's wages. Leon's fingers drummed an angry rhythm on the market counter. Evidence. We need concrete proof against Charle Hydraulic and the Roads Ministry.

His plan crystallized like frost on glass: leak damning documents to imperial auditors or muckraking broadsheets. Public shaming might force those corporate leeches to fund the antidotes. And if that failed... Well, certain backstreet alchemists knew uses for ammonium nitrate beyond fertilizer.

"Sir?"

The vendor's call shattered his reverie. Leon blinked at the steaming mug, momentarily disoriented. "Your total's one and a half copper discs," the grizzled man repeated, studying the youth's stormcloud expression.

"Right... sorry." Coins clinked onto stained wood. "Your name... let's stick with Uncle Charle. Feels proper, given your age."

The old merchant chuckled, sliding a crusty bread loaf across the counter. "Uncle suits me fine. Now..." He dragged a three-legged stool closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. "That look when I mentioned Charle Company - you got history with it?"

"Ah... you could say that."

Leon's fingers traced the chipped porcelain cup, strategically omitting his investigation plans. Instead, he recounted Anna's "gas pipe explosion" incident - the bandaged limbs, the phantom smell of burning hair, the conspicuously absent compensation forms.

"Ah, the family refusing settlement." The coffee vendor's rheumy eyes gleamed with revelation. He blinked rapidly, the steam from his brew momentarily fogging his wire-rimmed spectacles. "Truly, the heavens test the worthy."

When the old man leaned forward, Leon expected platitudes. Not the weathered hand pushing back half a copper disc. "Half-price forever, nephew. Provided..." The merchant's grin revealed a missing molar. "...you keep calling me Uncle."

Leon's eyebrows shot up. Did ancestral spirits bless this transaction? His mental calculations raced - this "discount" would still keep him spending 30% more than at Molly's Pancake Cart across the square.

The clatter of a three-legged stool interrupted his thoughts. "Now nephew..." The vendor's calloused palm covered Leon's, trapping the coin in a practiced gesture of false generosity. "Family should breakfast together daily, don't you think?"

Leon's lips twitched. So this is how lobsters feel in slowly boiling pots. The old fox had perfectly balanced guilt and economics - a masterclass in customer retention worthy of the Merchants' Guild textbooks.

Leon recognized the sales tactic but nodded agreement nonetheless. The stall's premium pricing was offset by its rare cleanliness, and with this "uncle discount" locking in future visits, the math worked in his favor.

Wolfing down the ham sandwich, he tightened Anna's hand-knitted scarf against the biting autumn dawn. The lingering warmth of bitter coffee and forced kinship almost made him forget he'd just been outmaneuvered by a street vendor.

A regular nudged Old Charle with a chipped mug, his nicotine-stained teeth bared in a grin. "Eight years I've come here, you tight-fisted old badger! Since when d'you give discounts? That boy your long-lost nephew? Or..." He waggled bushy eyebrows. "...prospective son-in-law?"

"Merely investing in customer loyalty." The vendor waved dismissively, though his gaze lingered on Leon's retreating silhouette. "Decent lad that one. Bit lean, but carries himself well."

He polished the counter's phantom stain where Leon's coins had lain. "Works municipal offices, given his direction. Courteous to street peddlers too - rare quality in clerks these days."

The old man's smile softened unexpectedly. "Reminds me of my boy... before the water riots."

After pondering other details he'd heard from his daughter Amy, the coffee stall owner arched an eyebrow. He exchanged a few more pleasantries with regular customers before settling back into his chair. Gazing up at the soot-stained canvas canopy of his stall, he absently stroked the salt-and-pepper stubble along his jawline.

People, he mused, tend to cloak their true selves within familiar environments and among acquaintances. It's only when faced with irresistible temptations or those less fortunate strangers who'll never cross their path again, that they inadvertently reveal glimpses of their authentic nature.

What this young man had unconsciously revealed was rather extraordinary - courteous demeanor, earnest diligence, and a sharp mind to boot. If Amy truly fancied him, he could hardly object...

But here lay the rub: Their family tradition demanded matrilocal marriage. Would this potential suitor ever consent to being a live-in son-in-law?

...

Unaware of being shortlisted for uxorilocal candidacy, Leon braved the bitter wind to reach the Cleanup Bureau. As he pushed open his office door, the promised new anomaly materialized before him - a black broom levitating midair, its bristles quivering with restrained energy.

[Lazy Witch's Rent-a-Broom (Corrupted/Flight/Shield)]

[Appearance: Jet-black hardwood shaft crowning crow feather tassels. Lingering pine-resin scent mingles with sporadic feline claw marks along its length]

[Abilities: Spell amplification, aerial maneuverability, localized atmospheric shielding]

[Cost: Every Friday 3:30PM sharp - entertain one (1) felid visitor. Violators experience spontaneous allergy outbreaks]

[Archive: Decommissioned by unnamed "Skyball" enthusiast witch. Loan agreement with Lion Branch mandates weekly cat-sitting services in exchange for broom privileges]

[Review: "Practical AND comes with purr therapy" - Beverly, Lion Branch Director]

[Corrosion: 0.5]

[Unique Badge "Materialist Soul (Crimson)" Activated]

[Slot Capacity+2]

[Current Slots: 5]

[Next Slot Unlock: 4 more anomalies required]

[Corrosion Level Upgraded → 0.9]

Leon's gaze ping-ponged between the levitating broom and the sulking Black Goat. The demon's horns dimmed under his withering stare.

"Pathetic." His finger tapped the holographic readout. "A glorified vacuum out-corrupts you 5 to 4."

The Goat's cigarette stub sizzled into ash. "Listen here you ungrateful-"

"Meow."

Both froze as the broom's crow feathers reshaped into a spectral tabby paw, batting the demon's horn with ethereal glee.

"Y"know," the voice drawled sarcastically, "if you hadn't 'leveled up' yesterday, your Corrosion Level would be one-fifth of this broom's. A damned broom outclassing five of you... tsk... utterly pathetic."

"Whatcha lookin' at?!"

The Black Goat recoiled as Leon's gaze pricked its consciousness, the hoofprint still smeared across its muzzle twitching with rage. "You think I'm useless now, you ungrateful twerp? We've danced through death's doorway together! That time the Executioner nearly cleaved your pretty head? Who took the blade? Me! Now you get shiny new artifacts and suddenly this hellspawn ain't good enough?"

"No, not at all."

Leon turned away, the lie clinging to his teeth. True, this chaos-spawn kept suggesting "fun" ideas like poisoning city wells or skinning bishops alive. But that scar across his ribs still ached when rain came - the scar this manic entity had intercepted. "You're misunderstanding," he forced a placating tone, "I never said you were weak. Honestly."

"..."

Then why won't you look me in the eyes, you two-faced meatbag?!

The Black Goat seethed. Direct insults it could handle - verbal sparring was its bloody birthright. But this? This infuriating mercy, this patronizing "there-there" pity dripping from every syllable... It was worse than any "I-told-you-so". The half-uttered consolation pierced through the Black Goat's demonic pride like sanctified silver.

"Don't you dare look down on this hellspawn!" it roared, shadows coagulating around cloven hooves. "I'll show you apocalyptic! I'll-"

With a dull thud, the mentally shattered black goat rolled off the table and began writhing on the carpet, shrieking in exasperation:

"I am a Greater Demon! One of the most notorious Greater Demons in the entire Abyss!"

"Mm-hmm, I believe you. Your powers are... impressive in your own way."

"Aaaahhh!!!" Screeched the goat, her headache worsening from Leon's attitude. "You brat... I was ambushed during my descent! My heart, my eyes, my stomach... all stolen! Even these horns were mangled by that red-haired bitch!"

"Don't judge me by my current state! Just retrieve what I've lost, and I'll become your Containment Bureau's mightiest... top ten... at least top thirty anomaly!"

"..."

Holy hell. So you're basically a demon-themed collector's set?

Though skeptical of the goat's wavering "top thirty" claim, Leon instinctively perked up at the mention of potential companion artifacts to the [Demon's Twin Horns].

The silver badge [Demon's Ally] enhanced his affinity with "Corruption"-type anomalies, reduced their energy expenditure, and dramatically amplified their effects. This meant artifacts like [Demon's Heart], [Demon's Stomach], or [Demon's Twin Eyes] would synchronize perfectly with him - each acquisition promising immediate power surges.

After a pause, he leaned forward: "Tell me more."

After retrieving the ram's head and placing it back on the table, Leon temporarily pushed his "new favorite" aside and inquired with genuine interest toward his "former companion":

"How many anomalous artifacts were separated from you? And where should I acquire them?"

"If you're truly curious... Counting these horns," the Black Goat responded, its spirits visibly lifting at Leon's apparent interest in reassembling its essence, "the pieces qualifying as anomalous artifacts amount to seven!"

Seizing the momentum, the infernal creature began boasting with renewed vigor: "At my prime, my existence rivaled demi-divine entities! As one of the supreme archfiends, my very flesh incarnated ultimate corruption!"

"My horns were weapons of conflict, embodying wrath and warfare. My heart pulsed with swollen ambition, symbolizing arrogance and lust for dominion. These eyes held twisted convictions, representing envy and rebellion."

"My stomach personified gluttony and conquest, the tongue epitomized devouring and desolation, while the tail embodied sloth and secrecy... Lad, mark my words! Reunite my essence, and you'll breach the Cleanup Bureau's elite ranks - perhaps even surpass that crimson-haired harpy herself!"

"..."

"Before rushing to collect," Leon interjected, brow furrowed in calculation, "there's discrepancy in your accounting. Horns, heart, eyes, stomach, tongue, tail... That's six. Where's the seventh?"

"The final fragment..." The Black Goat's voice turned uncharacteristically sheepish. "That particular artifact suffered... irreversible damage. It's likely still regenerating somewhere. We need only await its reconstitution before retrieval."

"Not that I'm in a hurry, but you've got to tell me what the last one is!"

"..."

"Why the hesitation?"

"..."

"Spit it out! Why specifically hide this last item?"

Under Leon's relentless barrage of questions, the Black Goat finally relented with visible discomfort.

"The last... is my... reproductive organ. Representing lust and... carnal union."

"..."

For heaven's sake! Can't you see I'm embarrassed? Must you pry into everything?

The Black Goat shot Leon an irritated glare after his ill-timed interrogation, its voice dripping with sarcasm: "As for acquisition methods... After being ambushed, those bastards exploited my weakened state. Used some damned restraint method and started... dismantling me piece by piece."

"Rather than getting completely dismantled, when they reached... that area..." Its voice dropped to a growl. "I detonated the damn thing myself. Sent the other six artifacts scattering God-knows-where. After crash-landing, I latched onto the nearest viable host and went on the run - endless months of dodging and hiding."

"When the pursuit seemed to die down, I tried regaining strength through minor... incidents." The Goat's ears flattened. "That's when that red-haired bitch caught me, beat me into this pathetic state..." It suddenly narrowed its eyes at Leon's shifting expressions - disdain flickering through shock to something uncomfortably close to admiration.

"Wait... Why are you looking at me like that, brat?"

"Why the look? Can only be respect. Let's be real," Leon replied, eyebrows dancing with irreverent admiration. "That 'self-detonate my own junk' maneuver? That's the most balls-to-the-wall power play I've ever heard of. Any man alive's gotta tip his hat to that brand of crazy."