I, the Reality Janitor!

"Hmm?"

The red-haired Director paused mid-sip of water, observing Leon's dust-covered uniform and bandaged hands. "This was supposed to be a simple recon mission with your soul vision. How'd you end up looking like you wrestled a cement mixer? Was the anomaly that dangerous?"

"The anomaly itself isn't dangerous. Actually, it's quite benevolent. We just... clashed personalities."

After recounting his ordeal, Leon watched the Director's amber eyes crinkle with suppressed amusement. Steeling himself, he ventured:

"Director... might I ask you something?"

The woman's mirth vanished instantly. She protectively covered her threadbare coin purse:

"Leon, as Virgo Bureau Chief, my salary's barely higher than yours, and the maintenance costs for..."

"Not about money!" Leon interjected, recalling the faded municipal records. "Before reporting, I visited the Road Administration archives. Found documents about Bliss Residence - today's anomaly - from ninety years ago."

"The almshouse built by that elderly couple once sheltered over three hundred orphans and disabled persons. Beyond minor water rate discounts from the utility company due to high usage, they received no royal support - sustained entirely by the couple's dwindling savings."

"Later, when the old woman fell gravely ill," Leon continued, fists clenched, "she petitioned the Road Administration Bureau thirty-seven times to legitimize the facility. Her proposal? Let it operate legally with her remaining funds until the last resident passed. Yet every application was denied."

Taking a steadying breath, Leon's voice tightened:

"I kept wondering - why reject this win-win solution? The vulnerable get shelter through private funds. The Bureau spends nothing, deploys no staff. Why would any official rather see those people freeze to death beneath the 'Bliss Residence' sign than stamp a approval?"

"You misunderstand." The red-haired Director closed her eyes briefly before countering with bureaucratic precision:

"Suppose you were that official. Why would citizens build their own almshouse when the Crown already funds such facilities? What does that say about your management? The real cost isn't monetary - it's admitting institutional failure. Every approved petition becomes a public record of your department's negligence."

"Moreover, if you take over this almshouse, even without daily supervision, you must appoint a responsible custodian. Should a fire or accident cause casualties, are you prepared to bear liability? If the blaze stems from residents' negligence, could you accept being dismissed for managerial failure?"

"Finally, adopting citizen-funded almshouses brings no political merit. Once legitimized as municipal facilities, should they collapse financially, the custodian faces mandatory censure. Who would volunteer for such a thankless role - all risk, zero reward, guaranteed career stain?"

"..."

So familiar... tsk.

Observing Leon's darkening expression, the red-haired Director sighed inwardly before locking eyes with him:

"Leon, I know this disgusts you. But remember - our Bureau exists to keep anomalies from civilian lives. Beyond that, we don't interfere."

"By pact with the kingdoms, we never deploy 'non-human' powers unless anomalies are involved. This is our cardinal rule, their tolerated boundary."

Her voice hardened like forged steel:

"Never cross that line. Think thrice before acting. Don't become your own executioner. Understood?"

"You're overestimating me. I truly don't intend anything..." Leon's knuckles whitened briefly before he lowered his head, voice deceptively calm. "Those events happened ninety years ago. Everyone involved - the evicted, the bureaucrat who denied them - they're all dead. What could I possibly do?"

"..."

True. But what about the Road Administration Bureau now? The water utility company's current corruption? The thousand injustices you'll witness tomorrow?

The Director's gaze lingered on Leon's trembling shopping bag. Even without the Black Goat's presence clouding my soul vision, I know that damned entity's influence when I see it. The way its residual energy quivers when you suppress your fury...

"Very well. You're dismissed for today."

She accepted his mission report, her fingers brushing against paperwork that suddenly felt unnervingly familiar.

"Take half-day medical leave. Those hands need rest." Her tone softened, though her citrine eyes remained piercing. "I won't chain you to willful blindness. Investigate the water company if you must. There's even an... anomalous artifact arriving tomorrow to facilitate your... extracurricular inquiries."

Leaning forward, she tapped the Cleanup Bureau insignia on her desk - the twelve zodiac signs encircling a crossed-out eye:

"But mark this: Every intervention requires plausible deniability. No anomaly-powered grandstanding among civilians. That's not a guideline - it's the oxygen keeping this Bureau alive."

"I'll keep that in mind..."

The Director massaged her temples as she studied Leon's stormy expression. Her voice softened with rare vulnerability:

"Leon, your unyielding morals are what make you exceptional. To cling to principles through poverty and loss? That's rarer than any anomaly we hunt."

"But even Celestial Bastion guardians need restrains. We may wield extraordinary powers, yet remain bound by humanity's social contract. Not even kings - or Bureau Chiefs - can right every wrong. Harsh truths, but necessary ones."

"I understand. My apologies for taking your time."

Returning to his office, Leon stared at the second shopping bag on his desk. The Director's words echoed alongside ghosts:

Am I truly righteous?

Do I fight for justice?

Where exactly are my lines drawn?

The stolen military pension that left them destitute...

The alchemical factory spewing Gray Lung toxins without remorse...

Hundreds choking on tainted water in hospital corridors...

Nameless souls frozen outside Bliss Residence's gates in '94...

Heat rose to his cheeks as he voiced the forbidden thought:

Is the flaw in me... or this godforsaken world?

"Let's go."

After lingering at his desk, Leon hoisted the shopping bag filled with gray cigarette cartons. His fingers brushed the Black Goat's chipped horn as he murmured thoughtfully:

"Need somewhere quiet... Let me treat you to a smoke."

[Devil's Confidant (Silver): Having conducted ten profane rituals with offerings steeped in human anguish, your ambition has earned the favor of a high-tier demon]

[Equip Effect: +300% affinity with "Corrupted" anomalies. Halves activation costs while doubling potency]

[Progression: Continue agreed sacrifices until the demon manifests fully (Current Revival: 5%). Each wicked soul delivered accelerates revival]

[Hidden Trait: Your soul now radiates infernal resonance, attracting predatory entities]

[Corrosion Level Increased]

[Current Corrosion: 0.4]

Corrosion...

Squatting in an alley near the Enforcement Division, Leon squinted at the flickering interface while lighting the Goat's cigarette. The Bureau had no records of this metric - he'd checked.

First contact: 0.1 when touching the Black Goat via [Materialist Soul].

Second spike: 0.1 after gaining its allegiance.

Third anomaly: 7 from Director's [Love Without Memory].

Fourth instance: 0.1 through [Abode of Spirit Hosting]'s doorknob.

The pattern crystallized - Corrosion Level wasn't just a stat. It was a contamination gauge, measuring how deeply entities had marked his soul.

"Moreover, since the Black Goat began awakening, my Corrosion Level increased in tandem. It seems using an anomaly inevitably imprints its corruption level onto the user."

Leon absently stroked the Black Goat's horn as he reviewed its stats:

[Name: Demonic Visage (Corrupted, Erudition, Whisper) (Awakening)]

[Appearance: ...]

[...]

[Corrosion: 0.4]

Matching my own. Confirms the theory.

The revelation about the nurse became clear - residents greeting the superintendent daily at [Abode of Spirit Hosting] accumulated 0.1 Corrosion through routine exposure. The Bureau's Memory-Eraser anomaly likely spares anyone with Corrosion ≥0.1 from cognitive purges.

But what does Corrosion truly measure?

Comparing anomalies:

Both [Demonic Visage] and [Abode] at 0.1 withstood John's shears

Director's [Love Without Memory] at 7.0 erased 70,000 memories

The pattern suggested Corrosion quantifies an anomaly's reality-warping magnitude. Higher numbers meant greater existential weight - explaining why the Director's artifact overpowered lesser anomalies despite similar appearances.

"Hmm... Not enough exposure to anomalies. Data's insufficient." Leon murmured, staring at the Black Goat's holographic panel. The Corrosion Level now read 0.4 - higher than [Abode of Spirit Hosting]'s 0.1. If this metric truly reflects power levels...

Once stronger, I'll revisit Bliss Residence. Test if the Goat can withstand John's shears without chipping this time...

"Stop petting me like some damn mutt!"

The Goat shook off Leon's hand, exhaling a sulfurous smoke ring. Its voice rumbled with dark amusement:

"Kid, keep those cigarettes coming and we'll call the shield incident square. Partners, eh?"

"Sure, sure."

Leon lit seven cigarettes simultaneously, stuffing them between the Goat's jagged teeth. His casual tone belied razor focus:

"Notice something odd? Bureau agents aren't... normal. Emma dents alloy cabinets bare-handed. Director downs a hundred whiskeys without flushing. Even Harry - just back from mission - lifts cargo crates like teacups..."

After sharing his observations, Leon fixated on the black goat, his eyes unblinking as he inquired,

"If it were just one or two people, it might be attributed to the effects of an anomaly. But if everyone in the bureau is like this, there must be a reason! So can you tell me what I need to do to attain their physical abilities?"

"Tsk... You've been quite observant, but there's no need to rush!"

The black goat lazily exhaled a large puff of smoke, tendrils wafting from its ears, and continued,

"Well... let me put it this way: when you use our abilities, don't you ever feel utterly drained? Like every part of you, both mentally and physically, has been completely emptied?"

"Do I?"

"…"

Ah... I forgot how high this kid's affinity with demons is...

After casting a speechless glance at Leon, the black goat shifted the cigarette from one side of its mouth to the other and said with a scowl,

"Our ability isn't about observing souls; it's about stirring the darker sides of others' hearts! You've been treating us like a telescope or a half-hearted mind reader, never really using us properly! Of course, you wouldn't feel any drain!"

"Oh…"

"In any case, every time you use an anomaly, you not only have to adhere to its inherent rules but also expend a certain amount of physical and mental willpower as a cost. The more powerful the effect you wish to achieve, the greater the physical and willpower cost.

For instance, that guy named Harry in your bureau—his strongest anomaly is a roll of tape that never runs out. That stuff can not only stick physical objects together but can even bind conceptual things."

"Conceptual things... like what?"

"Souls. Bonds. Shattered convictions." The Black Goat exhaled a sulfurous plume. "If you ever catch yourself liking him, slap yourself awake - means he's taped your free will."

After warning Leon about "affectionate ambushes" from male colleagues, the demon continued:

"Harry's tape mends physical breaches effortlessly - reconnecting severed railways, bridging dried riverbeds. He could patch kilometers daily."

"But conceptual repairs?" The Goat's horn glinted ominously. "Fifty soul-binds would break him. Stronger the target's will, heavier the toll. Last year, taping the ginger director's trust left him bedridden for three months - mind divorced from meat."

[Anomalous Principle Revealed]

Power Scale = (Artifact's Base Strength) × (User's Stamina/Willpower)

The Goat leaned closer, ember-like eyes burning:

"Feed me enough rage and pain, pup, I'll incite riots across districts. Weak vessel? Weak results. Strong host? We rewrite reality."

The Black Goat took a long drag, its smoldering eyes narrowing with satisfaction:

"More missions. More anomalies. More use. Let their power seep into your bones. That's how mortals become... otherwise."

Its horn glinted as smoke curled into occult sigils.

"Take me - my Corrosion matched that dump Bliss Residence. Use me for decades, you'd barely gain stamina. But feed me premium sins..."

The demon's grin widened, showing jagged teeth.

"Now I corrode 3-4 times faster! Slaughter a few bastards, sacrifice their rotten souls? We'll have you bench-pressing trucks like Harry within a year. Tempting, eh?"

"..."

This bastard never stops hustling.

Leon's annoyance froze mid-scowl. His mind raced:

Original Corrosion - Goat 0.1 vs Abode 0.1

Current Goat 0.4 = 4x speed

Corrosion isn't just contamination... it's TRANSFORMATION RATE!

The revelation should have thrilled him. Instead, Leon whirled toward the smoking demon, a terrible suspicion dawning -

You knew.

You KNEW all along what these numbers meant.

"Director's [Love Without Memory] has Corrosion 7! You started at 0.1? Seventy times weaker?" Leon's voice dripped with incredulous scorn. "All that 'Great Demon Lord' boasting... You're just a discount knockoff!"

The Black Goat's cigarette trembled as it caught Leon's expression - 20% exasperation, 30% shock, 50% pure disdain. Its sulfurous aura flickered nervously.

He knows. No... Impossible.

The ginger bitch used me for decades. Never noticed my growth rate. No way this rookie...

"Ahem!" The demon expelled smoke to mask its unease. "Quantity over quality, pup! Not all anomalies play nice like me." Its claw gestured theatrically. "Take Emma's immortality - you think that comes cheap?"

At the mention of his mentor, Leon's focus sharpened. The shopping bag in his hand crinkled faintly.

Leon's gaze lingered on Emma's empty workstation. Her immortality gnawed at him - how did she cheat death during the Lionheart Massacre? But after she'd saved Anna and gifted her service revolver, prying felt... dishonorable.

The Black Goat's raspy chuckle snapped him back.

"Still drooling over Ice Queen, eh? Saw you eye-fucking her armor seams last Tuesday."

Before Leon could protest, the demon inhaled seven smoldering cigarettes whole. Molten ash dripped from its jaws as it purred:

"Kill one irredeemable bastard. Gift me their screaming soul. Then I'll spill how Emma traded her-"

CRUNCH

Leon stomped the demon's hoof, snatching back the cigarette pack.

"Fucking rookie!" The Goat yowled, spitting embers. "No kicks! Fight fair! Teeth only! Come ba-ACK!"

[Later - Shooting Range]

The .50 caliber round vaporized the target. No triumph in Leon's eyes - just grim calculation.

After dealing with the mouthy black goat and tossing it back into the Clean-up Bureau's office, Leon didn't head straight home. Instead, he took his sniper rifle to the nearby police department, where he borrowed access to a secluded shooting range using Clean-up Bureau credentials to work on his shooting badge.

However, in order to improve his hit rate for future missions, Leon didn't just focus on the sheer number of live rounds fired. He chose targets set at maximum effective range and diligently trained his shooting feel, taking aim and firing shot after shot. The only problem was…

His hit rate was rather disheartening.

Facing a stationary target five hundred meters away, even with the cumulative accuracy provided by his "Materialist Soul," Leon found he needed an average of four to five shots to hit once. Out of ten rounds, he typically missed seven or eight.

It seemed that the single hit at the hospital was indeed largely due to luck… and the assistance of Senior Emma, who had helped adjust the rifle's sights beforehand. His true shooting ability was still that of a novice.

Peering through the scope at the paper target, he noticed that most of the holes were in non-critical areas. Leon couldn't help but shake his head, then blew hard on the whistle in his mouth. He picked up a small red flag and waved it toward the range supervisor. Shooting at the extreme distance of five hundred meters had already surpassed his current capabilities. Such a hit rate had little practical significance in real missions. Instead of striving for maximum range kills, it would be more beneficial to pull the distance back to around three hundred meters and quickly develop a shooting style with more practical value.

Heh, looks like it's time to change targets.

The range manager turned at the whistle's shrill cry. Seeing Leon's red flag signaling three hundred meters, he raised an eyebrow. His colleague caught the gesture - two weathered faces twisted in synchronized smirks, exchanging a silent "Told you so" through creased eyes.

"Kid waltzed in here demanding full five-hundred-meter course," the first muttered through tobacco-stained teeth, recalling how they'd advised starting at half-range.

"Spikes tumble like drunk hornets past four hundred," the other chuckled, watching gears engage. "Wind shear. Terminal drop. That last hundred turns marksmen into gamblers."

[Hydraulics Hiss]

The three-hundred-meter target rose like a mocking salute.

Their laughter carried metallic echoes. "Assistant Director rank at twenty-three. Thinks he'll sniff Clerk-Class by thirty." A derisive snort. "All nepotism polish, no trigger discipline."

"Guns don't care whose cumstain you are," his partner agreed, slamming the retraction lever. The five-hundred-meter target sank obediently. "Range rats always learn - just costs more brass."

The second attendant was halfway out of his chair when a calloused hand yanked his sleeve.

"Where you headed?"

"Eh? What? Let go! Need to replace the target sheets!"

"Replace what?"

The lever operator barked laughter, flipping up his colleague's ear muff amid the staccato gunfire. "Stay put! That pea-shooter he's got tops out at 470 meters!" he roared over the din. "Past that? You'd need divine intervention!"

A jerk of his thumb toward the firing line. "Sure, we've got old hounds who can lob rounds past spec – crusty bastards who've chewed gunpowder since diapers. But that pup? Baby-faced recruit couldn't hit Mars at max elevation!"

"Kid probably thinks 'barrel break-in' means rocking a crib!"

Unaware his struggles stemmed from ballistic limits rather than skill, Leon remained prone. Each metallic clink of spent casings marked progress toward his Bronze Marksman badge.

At three hundred meters, his shots transformed. Rounds now punched through thoracic outlines with surgical precision – twenty attempts might yield one stray.

When twilight gilded the range, the two-hundredth spike buried itself in steel. Leon's badge shimmered, its obsidian finish bleeding into patinaed bronze.

[Shooter]

Though new to firearms, your natural talent and grueling drills have forged you into a marksman worthy of the title.

[Equipped Effect]

Countless repetitions etched ballistic patterns into muscle memory. When consciously adjusting aim, your shots pierce paper with sniper-grade precision.

[Progression Path]

*Upgrade to Silver "Ballistic Virtuoso" upon:

5,000 live rounds fired (Current: 0/5,000)

OR 30,000 simulated triggers pulled (Current: 0/30,000)*

[Hidden Trait (Always Active)]

As a true gun enthusiast, wielding your signature weapon grants +5% stability – the sweet spot between love and mechanical harmony.

Leon stared at the holographic prompt. "Five thousand more?" His mental math unfolded: Forty-odd hours of range time. If Silver-to-Gold follows this multiplier... The projection spiraled into four-digit drudgery.

While fundamentals improved through disciplined practice, no amount of trigger time could match the quantum leap promised by higher-tier badges. A conspiratorial grin spread across his face. Every system's got loopholes.

No breath control this time. Leon slapped a fresh canister into his modified nailgun, aimed carelessly at the three-hundred-meter silhouette, and...

THWUNK

A spike embedded itself three inches left of the thoracic X-ring. The system counter dutifully registered Shot #1.

Abandoning precision for spray-and-pray transformed Leon's rhythm. Between gasps for breath and frantic reloads, he unleashed over a dozen spikes per minute. Thanks to [Materialist Soul]'s unorthodox guidance, half these wild shots miraculously found their mark.

Yet when he checked the [Shooter] badge's interface, the progression bar remained frozen at 0/5000. Not a single decimal crept forward.

"So the system only counts disciplined shots..." He chuckled bitterly, dismantling his anti-material rifle with practiced efficiency. Canvas straps groaned as he shouldered the weapon case, twilight staining his retreating back crimson.

Moments after his exit, a walnut-skinned policewoman in midnight uniform swept into the bay. Her service weapon glinted dully as she claimed Leon's vacated lane. Dark circles under her eyes betrayed sleepless nights, though the .50 caliber rifle in her hands suggested therapy of a different sort.

"Five hundred," she rasped to range officers, raising a yellow flag.

As the distant silhouette emerged, her knuckles whitened around the grip. A shallow breath. The cool kiss of cheek weld against stock. Then - through crosshairs still warm from another shooter's presence - she found the trigger's sweet spot.

Observed the target through his scope, noting the five or six large holes peppered across it. The female police officer's brows furrowed slightly as she raised a small black flag, summoning the range manager.

"This target hasn't been replaced," she stated flatly, pointing towards the distant wooden target. "You can see the holes from the previous shooter."

"Ah? My apologies!" The range manager hurriedly responded upon hearing her words, a nervous smile spreading across his face. "We just had someone new here who seemed a bit unsteady in their preparations. After a few shots, they switched to a half-target, so we thought they weren't hitting the full target and didn't rush to replace it. I'm sorry about that."

"It's fine," she waved off the apology. Narrowing her eyes at the target paper through her scope, her expression turned serious. "I see these holes are quite significant. This is beyond thirty meters from the firearm's maximum range, likely caused by erratic rounds spiraling out of control. Isn't the department stressing control and minimizing unnecessary harm lately? Why are there still people practicing with shots that are guaranteed to be lethal?"