I, the Reality Janitor!

"At merely 5% awakening level of the Black Goat—or should I say [Demon's Vertex]—its corruption index already reads 0.4," Leon mused, fingers tracing the pulsating artifact. "Once this thing hits full activation? That metric could skyrocket to 8. A full point higher than the Red-Haired Director's [Love Without Memory]."

He leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. "Now imagine collecting all seven anomalies to complete the 'Diablo Set.' Seven times eight..." His breath hitched at the calculation. "Fifty-six total corruption points. Christ. The Director's 7-point artifact can wipe memories from thousands. What kind of apocalyptic power would 56 points unleash?"

"Guess I'll keep my eyes peeled," Leon muttered, though whether this vow was meant for the artifact now emitting faint smoke patterns or himself remained unclear. Checking his wristwatch with a practiced flick of eyes, he made a wrap-it-up gesture. The room's ambient hum immediately dimmed.

From his trench coat pocket emerged a crumpled department store bag—relic of last week's Gaote cigarette run. With the efficiency of someone who'd smuggled stranger things, Leon bundled the smoking artifact into faded paper. His other hand closed around a broomstick hovering mid-air, its birch twigs crackling with static. Testing the grip, he swung a leg over like mounting a steel horse.

Phut.

The broom handle's expected hardness never came. Instead, an invisible cushion of air cradled him, its pressure differential whispering through his jeans. As he rose, a translucent barrier coalesced around his body—a personal atmospheric envelope maintaining perfect cabin pressure despite the altitude. Leon flexed mental muscles he never knew he had. The barrier rippled responsively.

"Interesting..." His grin turned feral. The wind shield wasn't just for flight—it was clay to his will. With concentration, he could...

BANG!

A controlled pulse of compressed air exploded outward. Paper tornadoes erupted in the office. Reports became albatrosses, coffee mugs transformed into ballistic projectiles, and a certain framed "Employee of the Month" photo met its destiny against the water cooler.

Leon surveyed the aftermath of the airburst, a satisfied smirk tugging at his lips. Flight. Protective shielding. Partial aerokinesis.

"The medallion wasn't lying," he remarked, polishing the artifact with his sleeve. "The Director really traded for a Grade-A anomaly." The goat head's precognitive warnings combined with this new tool made him nearly untouchable. Nearly.

His tactical mind already charted future engagements: A palm-blast of compressed air to disorient foes → immediate broomstick extraction → escape under wind barrier cover. Better yet—gain altitude, deploy sniper rifle, hunt pursuers from cloud cover.

"High-altitude shot calibration?" He snorted. At extreme heights, his [Materialist Soul] would stack accuracy buffs with every missed round. Eventually, statistics would betray even the most evasive target. And considering his nailgun's payload could punch through concrete... Well, few could survive first contact unless they'd mainlined super-soldier serum.

The strategy reeked of cheese—the kind of cheap kiting tactics forum warriors would flame. But without Senior Emma's immortality? Screw honor. Survival meant fighting dirty.

Securing the goat head's shopping bag to the broomstick with triple knots, Leon then swaddled the [Witch's Broom] in moth-eaten linens. The bundled package now resembled a mutant fishing rod rather than a magical artifact. Perfect for urban camouflage.

With practiced nonchalance, he exited the Cleanup Bureau's rear entrance. The old docks awaited—and whatever fresh hell today's assignment might bring.

As the largest among the six hydraulic corporations in the royal capital, Char Hydraulics' municipal water supply operations barely scratched the surface of its empire. The company manufactured pressure vessels through hydro-mechanical processes, collaborated with the Agricultural Ministry on irrigation networks, partnered with Transportation Departments for flood control and river dredging, and maintained the labyrinthine sewer systems snaking beneath the city—to name but a few endeavors.

This leviathan—funded by Char Department Stores, thick with investments from titled aristocrats, and intertwined with multiple crown-sanctioned bureaus—transcended corporate definitions. A quasi-governmental entity in its own right, its headquarters occupied prime real estate along the Upper Bunk River's plains. The compound sprawled across one of two strategic footholds controlling the waterway, complete with private docks that would shame most naval bases.

The Bunk River itself, a trident prong stabbing through the capital's heart, served dual purposes as the city's lifeblood and commercial artery. Along its banks clustered warehouses and harbors like barnacles on a warship's hull. Above churned steam-powered behemoths, their towering smokestacks belching acid-tinged plumes as they devoured coal and whale oil by the ton. These ironclad workhorses hauled cargo and passengers well past midnight, their piston rhythms syncing with the city's pulse.

After surrendering three copper wheels for passage—an exorbitant fare that still reeked of corporate monopoly—Leon ducked into the third-class hold. For sixty-seven minutes he endured the stench of unwashed bodies and mildewed wood, clutching his broomstick-wrapped parcel beneath a flickering gaslamp. When the steamer finally groaned into Char Hydraulics' private terminal, the goat head in his shopping bag had developed an ominous rattle.

"You tightwad! Never smelled penny-pinching this rancid!" The Black Goat's voice emerged muffled through the shopping bag as they escaped the ferry terminal's throngs. Leon felt the artifact shudder with theatrical gagging. "Rotting fish guts! That sweaty bastard next to you took off his boots! My divine nostrils are defiled!"

The goat's tirade crescendoed as they reached clearer air: "I'm begging you, mortal—when we return, upgrade to standard class! Five copper wheels for breathable air! Five!"

Leon adjusted his broomstick parcel. "Upper decks cost triple."

"Triple my hoof! We're talking two extra coppers!" The bag jerked indignantly. "Two coppers for not marinating in foot-stink brine! You enjoy being human jerky in that sardine tin?"

Silence. Leon sniffed his sweat-soured collar, briefly wavering. Memories flashed—the warmth of Char's coffee stall, the barista's smile as she slid him an extra ham slice. He squared his shoulders. "Two coppers buys breakfasts. Real ones. With ham."

"Ham? HAM?" The goat's outrage shook the bag. "You'll be the ham when I—" A wet, demonic snort echoed. "Mark my words! When my powers return, I'll patrol this stench-trench daily! Every ship that lets passengers remove footwear... every toe fungus cultivator... I'll peel their hulls open like tin cans!"

Amidst the Black Goat's profanity-laced grumbling, Leon approached Char Hydraulics' wrought-iron gates clutching his bundled Witch's Broom. The sour tang of dried sweat clung to him like second skin as he merged with the worker crowds. Rather than storming corporate headquarters, the investigator circled the perimeter thrice—a predator sizing prey.

Behind a shadowed alleyway bloomed his prize: A congregation of threadbare souls bearing fresh bruises and surreptitious glances. Leon melted into their ranks, ears pricked. When their muttered grievances turned to corporate malpractice, he struck like match to tinder. "Bloody leeches poisoning our river!" The disguised agent's righteous fury ignited the crowd. "Aye!" "Bastard engineers!" Dozens of voices roared confirmation as Leon mentally catalogued each accusation.

Armed with intel and reeking of proletariat rage, he marched through main gates like conquering hero. The security guard—all beefy arms and beady eyes—materialized instantly. "Halt! D'ya know where—"

"Metropolitan Constabulary." Leon flashed his badge with practiced nonchalance, watching the brute's neck veins bulge. "Escort me to Security Manager. Now."

The guard's knuckles whitened on his baton, yet years of corporate indoctination kicked in. "Y-yes sir! Right away sir!" His sausage fingers trembled verifying the insignia—guild engraving authentic, wax seals unbroken. Such were the required skills for guarding capitalist temples.

The burly security guard immediately straightened up upon seeing the junior officer's badge. Without uttering a word, he escorted the young man to the security department office.

The security manager's practiced smile froze when he saw the Cleanup Bureau insignia embossed on the credentials. His throat bobbed as he inquired about Leon's business, the words "routine inspection" suddenly tasting like ash.

It would have been so simple - a stern mention of "classified operations", that universal skeleton key for bureaucracy. Leon could practically see the manager's mental calculations: the cost of defiance versus the risk of provoking this human-shaped hornet's nest.

The Cleanup Bureau's credentials carried weight beyond their modest ranking in the kingdom's five-tier civil service hierarchy. Assistant-level officials like Leon occupied the fourth rung, true, but that still placed them above the teeming masses of clerks and functionaries. In military terms, this translated to captain's bars and command of two hundred men. In provincial governance, deputy directorship of critical departments.

At barely sixteen or seventeen, Leon already bore the markers of privilege: the crisp enunciation of academy training, the tailored cut of his uniform, and most damningly, that ancient surname that made petty bureaucrats break into cold sweat. The security manager's eyes kept darting to the embossed family crest on the credentials - less an identification document than a signed pardon for any collateral damage.

Yet when the manager's gaze crept upward to Leon's smooth cheeks, the obsequious facade cracked. A twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed the thought they both heard: What could this child possibly understand about real security protocols?

"Mr. Leon," the manager finally said, fingers drumming the Charr Hydraulics Incorporated seal on his desk. "While we deeply respect the Bureau's authority..." The unspoken second half hung like unsheathed steel: this corporate fortress answered to different gods.

Though they refrained from direct confrontation, should this "Level III Incident Controller" prove hostile regarding... sensitive matters, the arsenal of delaying tactics lay ready at hand.

"Well now, nothing particularly urgent," Leon murmured, reaching into the shopping bag to stroke the Black Goat's head. Observing the security manager's soul wavering between compliance and resistance, the hard lines of his face dissolved into a disarming smile. "Though given the recent influx of agitators at your premises, the Department grew concerned about potential riots at Hydraulic Solutions. Hence my... preventive investigation."

The security manager's pulse skipped at "hydraulic solutions." His grin stiffened. "Ah, well... corporate protocols being what they are—"

"Let's dispense with corporate liturgy." With practiced motion, Leon flicked open the crumpled Gaote cigarette case. The Black Goat's psychic curses about "six silver lunas per pack!" vibrated through his skull as he proffered the luxury brand. "Straight answer required: Can you contain the water main fallout?"

"Assuredly! Given sufficient time..." The manager's eyes tracked the cigarette's arc like a pendulum. "Ultimately depends on compensation packages, of course—"

"Try again. With candor this time."

Observing the man's wavering soul amidst their tug-of-war, Leon narrowed his eyes imperceptibly before raising his voice sharply to apply pressure.

"The chaos outside speaks volumes! Those protesters you chased away from the gates might be gone, but their graffiti demanding 'Compensate our medicine costs or come drink sewage' still stains your walls. You think me blind?"

The security manager wiped his palms on his trousers. "My apologies, but as head of security, compensation details and casualty numbers... those matters truly exceed my authority."

"You may lack authority," Leon pressed, closing half the distance between them, "but you possess access. Help me get to the bottom of this."

"Even for police personnel... these are corporate secrets. As security chief, I simply can't—"

"I came precisely because you're security chief!" Leon's baritone dropped to a velvet murmur, his gaze pinning the man in place. "Must I spell out what even children understand? When mobs storm these gates—and they will—do you think headquarters will order you to stand aside? Or send your men to hold the line?"

The manager's Adam's apple bobbed visibly.

"Imagine bloodstains on your batons. Picture terminally ill patients trampled in riots." Leon's whisper grew lethally sweet. "When investigations begin, who do you suppose they'll blame? The executives in their boardroom... or the security chief who 'overstepped'?"

A bead of sweat traced the manager's temple. "Regulations require... that is... the situation might not..." His protest died mid-sentence, fingers nervously adjusting his collar.

"Enough with the hesitations! Do you really think a company that cuts costs by pumping sewage into public waterlines would care about the life or death of one mere manager?"

Leon's gaze swept over the flickering soul-fire above the security manager's head - the man's mental defenses were crumbling. Seizing the opportunity, he roughly grabbed the manager's trembling hand and forced the entire cigarette carton into his palm.

One by one, Leon folded the man's stiff fingers around the crumpled pack, leaning in until his whisper brushed the manager's ear. "Let's think clearly, shall we? This really comes down to two simple choices."

His voice softened like velvet-wrapped steel. "First option: I conduct thorough investigations while you cooperate fully. When - not if - things go south, our Police Division gets advance warning. Containment becomes possible. You might even earn commendations for timely reporting and exemplary cooperation."

The second finger snapped down like a judge's gavel. "Alternative: You obstruct my inquiry by withholding Hydraulic Company's secrets. When the dam breaks - and it will - the Ministry loses face. I'll catch hell from my superiors. But you?" Leon's whisper turned arctic. "You'll shoulder blame for bloodshed. Get fired. Watch your family scavenge rags in the slums - maybe even fight stray dogs for burial shrouds stolen from funeral homes."

Confining the man's panicked thoughts within this binary prison, Leon observed sweat cascading down the ashen face. Though his own heart hammered like war drums, his words dripped with calculated languor: "Ever visited the capital's slums, old friend? Seen how they survive there? Let me paint you a picture - they shuffle through garbage heaps in rotted cloth, some even wrapped in mortuary linens stolen from graveside services..."

You'd have to fight crows and stray cats over trash bins, claw through toxic alchemical waste all day just to dig out a few rusted scraps worth half a copper wheel. And when winter comes? After the first heavy snowfall, the Public Works Department's sanitation trucks always leave behind frozen corpses too stiff for stray dogs to gnaw... Brother, ask yourself – if you choose this path, will your family become part of next winter's roadside exhibit?"

Leon abruptly stepped back just as the security manager's soul – its last ash-gray defenses thinner than eggshell against the raging black flames beneath – reached critical mass. The sudden withdrawal tore away the final barrier between the man and the slums' horrors.

"W-wait! WAIT!"

The man lunged forward, fingers vise-gripping Leon's arm. His ashen face twitched as the words tumbled out: "I... I could show you some... less sensitive areas. But no betrayals! If you sell me out, I'll... I swear I'll..."

"Relax."

Leon smiled, his heartbeat drumming at 160 bpm despite his outwardly calm as an old hound. Through his soul-sight, the manager's psychic defenses now lay in smoldering ruins. "What gain could I possibly reap from exposing you?" His chuckle carried razors. "To earn a knife between my ribs? To get reported for unethical intel gathering? Or perhaps..." he leaned in, "...to help the Waterworks Company sue me for industrial espionage?"

"Don't worry, I'm not an idiot. Why would I bother with something that offers zero benefits and nothing but trouble?" The young man's gentle smile didn't reach his eyes as he spoke.

"You... you..." The security manager stammered, his vision blurred momentarily. An unsettling illusion flickered before him - two razor-sharp ram's horns wreathed in dark mist crowning the youth's head.

A violent shiver ran down his spine. Avoiding eye contact with the deceptively amiable young demon, the manager hunched his shoulders defensively and hurriedly led Leon towards the archives.

...

'Click-click-click... Hatred, betrayal, jealousy, terror... Impressive work, boy!' The Black Goat's astral form widened its glowing eyes in astonishment, observing the security chief's soul that had charred pitch-black. Its telepathic voice buzzed in Leon's mind with metallic resonance.

'How did mere words from you corrupt his soul so thoroughly? Don't tell me you've acquired another anomalous object? But I sense no such energy...'

'No artifacts involved - just observation and deduction.' Retrieving a flask of cheap liquor from the goat-head printed shopping bag, Leon grimaced as the acrid fumes assaulted his nostrils. The [Martyr of Bacchus] medal warmed against his chest, its alcoholic empowerment dissolving his lingering anxiety.

Pressing a finger between the infernal creature's brows, he explained calmly, "Senior Emma taught me: intelligence is paramount in any situation. Meticulous observation, logical analysis, prudent judgment - that's how she survived six years at the Cleanup Bureau."

Before entering, I had carefully observed the injuries of the protesting crowd. The bruises were concentrated on fleshy areas, indicating security personnel had been instructed to control their force. The most likely person to issue such orders would be the security manager - someone bound to become the sacrificial lamb when major incidents occurred. This revealed that while part of the water company, his interests weren't fully aligned with the corporation. By targeting his vulnerabilities and severing his interests from the company, we could turn him into an ally.

"Damn... Forget that for now. You've already mastered soul communication?" The Black Goat grumbled through their connected fingertips, envious of Leon's innate demonic talents. "That was just a lucky guess! How could you possibly know he wasn't acting out of mercy? And how did you determine his fears?"

"If he had mercy, he wouldn't have personally led the charge. After clearing the entrance, they kept pursuing unarmed protesters with batons. As for his fears..." Leon's consciousness rippled with conviction. "His crisply pressed collar, the family portrait on his desk, the polo mallet in the corner - these all paint a picture of domestic stability and leisurely pursuits."

Recalling the warm smile of the man embracing his family in that photo, then contrasting it with the bloodied protesters in the alley, Leon shook his head somberly. "Men like him fear two things above all: the shattering of their peaceful lives, and falling from their privileged perch."

"Therefore, by forcibly associating uncooperative results with these matters and continuously interrupting his train of thought without allowing him time to ponder, he'll naturally yield bit by bit."

'...'

"Dammit! You brat really... Compared to you, this demon might as well be counterfeit!"

After pondering with his not-so-sharp mind and finding no obvious flaws, the Black Goat couldn't help but click his tongue in frustration, feeling he'd been a complete failure as a demon. Yet soon he perked up again, eyes gleaming with excitement as he shamelessly pleaded:

"Leon, Leon! When you eventually betray him, can you take me along?

Heh heh, the idea of succumbing to demonic temptation through personal weakness and cowardice, then being cast from peaceful mortal realms into hell... That's simply marvelous! I'm growing fonder of you by the minute!"

"..."

"Why aren't you speaking?"

After waiting endlessly for Leon's response, the Black Goat blinked in confusion before exploding in irritation:

"Don't tell me you're getting soft-hearted over his wife and kids? For fuck's sake! Wake up! He's a damn Hydraulic Company lackey! The bastard who led the beatings of those compensation seekers!

Listen, kid! Didn't you want to punish evil and uphold justice? Then go all out! After investigating the Hydraulic Company's crimes, turn around and report that scum without mercy!

Then plant your boot on his skull and arrogantly explain why you did it! Let him savor true despair in his own living hell!"

"..."

"We'll see..."

Shaking his head slightly, Leon sighed:

"Can't you perceive his soul too? While he's no saint, the darkness in his soul isn't markedly deeper than average people's. It fluctuates within normal ranges, even carrying a peculiar warmth..."

According to the itinerary they provided, that conference room has been occupied for nearly three days. They must be... must be negotiating compensation terms..."

Oh? So it really is about the water pipe incident?

Lyon had initially fabricated the story about overhearing plumbing-related discussions as pretext to fish for information about offal trade.

Yet through sheer serendipity, his random guess hit the mark - the people in that room were indeed connected to the public pipeline affair.

After marveling at his unexpected luck, Lyon gestured toward the meeting chamber behind him and flashed the security manager a conspiratorial grin.

"That... that's completely beyond my capabilities..."

The security manager paled visibly, his voice trembling like overstretched wires. "I'm just a low-level security supervisor! Helping you access archive records is already pushing my limits. That meeting..."

He swallowed hard, "Those attendees exist in entirely different stratosphere. Someone of my standing doesn't even have clearance to review meeting minutes. Please, you must understand..."

"Peace, my friend. I'm not asking you to smuggle me in." Lyon rested a reassuring hand on the man's epaulette. "Merely suggesting you address certain... security oversights."

His tone softened like velvet-wrapped steel. "Given recent disturbances - today's rabble rousing outside, multiple corporate crises - shouldn't vital meetings hosting road administration officials, agricultural delegates, Charl Company executives, and old-money aristocrats have proper security presence?"

The silence hung thicker than london fog.

Observing the security manager's thoughtful expression, Leon made his request in measured tones:

"Your security office should have spare uniforms. Fetch me a set that fits my size... Actually... one guard seems inadequate. Have another quiet and reliable one join me at the conference room post."

The security manager's breath hitched. Suppressing his instinct to limit this demon's exposure to potential witnesses, he clenched his jaw. "Perhaps I should—"

"Now, now," Leon interrupted smoothly, "a department head shouldn't man posts. You've more crucial tasks." His tone carried steel beneath its calm. "While I guard this door, you'll visit the archives. Retrieve relevant files—those you can't remove, transcribe key sections. Leave the materials beneath that family portrait in your office."

Leon's finger tapped the framed photo on the desk. "The school crest on your wife's uniform... Victor Parish Primary teacher, yes? Your daughter attends there too, I presume?"

As color drained from the manager's face, Leon withdrew his hand from the man's shoulder. His smile held paternal warmth when he added:

"What blessings—a vibrant daughter, gracious educator wife, mid-tier corporate position. Your life outshines ninety percent of the capital's residents."

The unspoken threat crystallized in his parting words: "Do keep being that exemplary husband and father. We wouldn't want... disappointments. Will we?"

"Apologies, but I'm afraid I must decline this proposal," replied the golden-haired middle-aged man, calmly setting down the seventh revised compensation plan. His aristocratic features remained composed as he continued, "The Lyon family has invested substantially in every phase of this municipal waterworks renovation and expansion project. Our dividends these past two years have barely recouped our initial investment. Should we adopt this compensation scheme, not only would this year's dividends be forfeited, but we'd also be required to return last year's shares. This is utterly unacceptable to our house."

"The Yorks concur."

"The Marcinis oppose."

"With three of six directors objecting, it appears this voting round is concluded before commencement," remarked the presiding moderator with a diplomatic nod. Turning to the ashen-faced woman at his left, he added, "Madame Chareux, while your family contributed the majority stake in establishing the water utility company, I must advise you to reconsider your proposal. The... idealistic resolution you envision simply won't gain approval."

"Reconsider? How much more revision does this require?" The Chareux matriarch rose abruptly, her beauty still striking despite the crow's feet framing her furious eyes. Days of grueling negotiations seemed to crystallize in her trembling voice as she confronted the impassive assembly: "We took thirty percent of dividends but shoulder fifty percent of liabilities! What more would you have us sacrifice? Should Chareux Department Stores assume the entire burden?!"

"Madame, I must implore you to compose yourself..."

As the middle-aged woman's outburst subsided, the Lyon patriarch rapped his knuckles lightly against the conference table. His voice carried aristocratic detachment: "We never suggested Chareux Department Stores absorb full liability. Our objection lies in the compensation methodology." The man adjusted his cufflinks, sunlight glinting off his signet ring. "Rather than tedious victim settlements, let's exercise... flexibility."

Leaning forward, he drew invisible divisions in the air. "Spin off energy, irrigation, sanitation – all non-water-supply sectors – into new corporate entities. Let the original Chareux Hydraulic Company settle claims exclusively through its water division profits." A cold smile played on his lips as he met the matriarch's furious gaze. "Once obligations are fulfilled, the hollowed parent company can declare bankruptcy. Neatly contained."

Reclining into leather upholstery, he steepled his fingers with statesmanlike composure. "The contamination originated in water services. Why should other profitable sectors suffer?" His tone adopted false magnanimity. "I propose we limit compensation to water division earnings. An equitable solution, wouldn't you agree?"