I, the Reality Janitor!

While shutting down Chareux Hydraulic outright might absolve most liabilities - seemingly an ideal solution for all directors - it spelled disaster for the Chareux Department Stores bearing the same name.

Should she endorse this proposal, the brunt of public fury would inevitably crash upon her enterprise. Though protesters couldn't storm the Ministry of Infrastructure nor boycott three ancient noble houses, they'd gladly ransack Chareux's crimson-awning stores scattered across the capital.

Her retail empire currently commanded over seventy percent market share, yet overnight, those bustling emporiums could become ghostly targets - besieged by vandalism, their display windows perpetually rattled by stones, their gilded corridors echoing with looters' footsteps.

"You... you vile schemers!" The matriarch's chest heaved as she scanned the boardroom's indifferent faces. Emerald bracelets clattered when she crashed her fist onto the mahogany table. "Need I remind you? Our House provided sixty-three percent capital infusion! The veto clause remains binding!"

"Regrettable." The Lyon patriarch steepled manicured fingers, reclining like a marble effigy. "When principle diverges from profit..." His pause hung heavier than the chandelier above. "The Lyons shall withdraw our stake."

Behind his frost-gray eyes danced unspoken threats: stock crashes, creditor sieges, royal audits. A death sentence wrapped in velvet decorum.

"Per the original contract," the Leon patriarch's gaze traced the crimson veins mapping the matriarch's eyes, "we'd proceed to vote. A favorable outcome would permit us to claim this year's dividends... though judging by your current state—"

He waved dismissively, the ancestral signet ring glinting like a guillotine blade. "The Leons forfeit our dividends. May prosperity favor those remaining."

"This—this is corporate banditry!" The matriarch's jade hairpin quivered as she stabbed a finger towards the oligarchs. "The dividend barely covers thirty percent reparations! And you dare abandon the waterworks disaster you engineered?"

A raspy chuckle interrupted. The rose-crested elder adjusted his cravat with arthritic elegance. "Madam Chareux, your veto governs resolutions, not resignations." His cane thudded rhythmically like a retreating war drum. "The Massinis too shall withdraw. May your... solo venture thrive."

"Yorks concur," came the third dagger thrust.

As the triple betrayal crystallized, the matriarch's desperate gaze swept towards the bureaucrat.

"An act of God," declared the flood control director, avoiding her stare by studying his brass-plated ledger. "Our dams fell, but protocol breaches caused overflow. No funds shall flow from royal coffers."

"The Agricultural Ministry concurs." The water resources commissioner adjusted his peacock-feathered bicorne, its silver threads catching the dim boardroom light. "Our department holds no stake in water supply. Even if I petitioned for emergency funds..." He spread hands calloused by decades of ink-stained reports. "At most, we'll declare Chareux Hydraulic's annual deficit and waive dividends. Beyond that, no blade of wheat grows against the wind."

Silence. The matriarch's knuckles whitened around her seat's lion-head carvings. So they'd all cast their anchors into my sinking ship.

"You cannot leave!" Her stiletto cracked marble flooring as she blocked the exodus. "Withdraw now, and you forfeit all subsidiary contracts! Not just future dividends - every copper coin of your initial investments stays buried in these ruins!"

The blond oligarch's eyelid twitched - a predator's blink. "Foresight precedes fortune, Madam." His monotone resonated like a coffin lid settling. "The clients sustaining your 'enterprise'... they wear our family crests. Without buyers..." He gestured to the vaulted ceiling where painted clouds swallowed Icarus. "...your factories become mausoleums."

Leaning forward, his shadow engulfed her trembling form. "When Chareux Hydraulic collapses, we'll erect Phoenix Waterworks. Purchase your rusting pipes for scrap value. Perhaps melt your logo into chamber pots."

A serpentine smile finally cracked his porcelain demeanor. "Ah, and..." He lingered on her ashen lips, savoring the taste of victory. "...mind the rats when counting final inventories."

"Of course, our interests extend beyond hydraulics." The blond oligarch's cufflinks shimmered with embedded rubies, each stone bleeding crimson light across the conference table. "When Chareux & Co. Department Store unveils its successor – let's say, Triumph Emporium – we'd be honored to have you wield the golden shears."

Silence pooled like spilled mercury.

"You... this was orchestrated?!" The matriarch's pearl necklace snapped, ivory beads cascading like shattered teeth across the floor. Her body convulsed as realization struck – a marionette discovering its strings.

"The 'accident'..." Her voice curdled with epiphany. "The cost overruns that drained our reserves... the dam collapse right before ROI..." She gripped the mahogany table where her family's crest was inlaid, now a tombstone. "You're gutting our department stores through manufactured disaster!"

The oligarch examined his manicure, where lapis lazuli dust glittered like crushed dreams. "Three days of 'negotiations'?" His laughter echoed in the vaulted chamber. "We needed time for protest footage to reach every broadsheet. For your security thugs' batons to ink perfect headlines."

A director once loyal flicked open a tortoiseshell snuffbox engraved with her family motto. "Did you truly believe we needed your capital?" He inhaled sharply. "The hydraulic venture was always a... Trojan pipeline."

The matriarch staggered as memories rewrote themselves – ribbon-cutting ceremonies transformed into funeral processions, shareholder smiles now death's-head grins. "The naming rights..." She choked on the revelation. "Chareux Hydraulic wasn't an honor. It was a brandmarked steer for slaughter."

"Fool! Blundering, thrice-cursed fool!" The words clawed at her throat like broken glass.

"Mother? Mother!" The doll-faced girl lunged forward as the matriarch swayed, her Gucci handbag tumbling forgotten. The older woman's eyes rolled back, breath rasping in wet, guttural bursts - a broken calliope choking on its own melody.

"Help! Someone!" The daughter's wail pierced oak doors where Leon stood guard, his oversized uniform swallowing teenage shoulders. He blinked amber eyes that still held traces of childhood wonder.

Seven mutton organs... The morning's cryptic message resurfaced. Found one lead by noon, bluffed into a board meeting by three... His fingers brushed the griffin-shaped badge at his chest. And now this.

The Black Goat's voice slithered through his mind, all sulfur and honeycomb: The gilded whelp! Right there! My heart-jar throbs near his pulse!

Leon's gaze flickered to the blond aristocrat. Lionel family lineage... He committed the hawkish profile to memory - the cleft chin that spoke of generations marrying cousins, the left earlobe missing its diamond stud.

As he dashed toward the collapsed woman, his cap shadowed eyes that burned with stolen fire. The Goat's laughter echoed in his marrow, a butcher's knife scraping bone.

"Move!" The doll-faced heiress clawed at Leon's sleeve, Chanel No.5 clashing with panic's metallic tang. Her mother convulsed like a marionette with severed strings, Prada blouse rasping against marble. "Fetch physicians! Carry her to—"

"Don't jostle her!" Leon's command sliced through hysteria. His paramedic training surfaced—two summers stitching wounds in Marseille's underground clinics. The woman's locked jaw confirmed it: grand mal seizure. Intervening risked exposing his Interpol tracking implant, but letting Chareux's matriarch die would collapse the liability settlement... and his cover.

"Lay her flat," he barked, transforming the sobbing girl into an impromptu nurse. Silk cushions surrendered their lining—Bvlgari logo tearing as he fashioned a bite guard. "Tilt her head, loosen the collar." His fingers brushed cold platinum necklaces, calculating their resale value against mission parameters.

The girl obeyed with the frantic precision of someone drowning in uncertainty. Leon's gaze swept the boardroom—hidden cameras in the chandelier? Microphones behind Rothko reproductions?

"What now?" Her whisper trembled with the weight of first true helplessness.

"Wait." Leon adjusted his cap's shadow, veil concealing facial recognition markers. "And pray the seizure breaks before corporate vultures descend."

After exchanging a few words with the other acting guard and instructing him to fetch a utility cart just in case, Leon crouched down and murmured reassurance:

"I've seen this condition before. As long as we prevent airway obstruction or tongue biting, the episode should pass in minutes. If the situation persists, we'll transport her in this position to the doctors. There's virtually no mortal danger here."

"Understood! Thank you... thank you so much!"

The doll-faced girl's anxious breathing gradually steadied as the prognosis sank in.

Her knees buckled involuntarily and she collapsed backward with a soft thump, landing duckling-style on the plush carpet. Cradling her mother's jaw with trembling hands, she kept bobbing her head in gratitude, tears tracing glistening paths down her cheeks.

Though the chain of events felt drawn-out in the moment, less than sixty seconds had actually elapsed. When the color began returning to the matron's ashen face, the tense atmosphere in the conference room dissipated like popped soap bubbles.

The corporate raiders exchanged covert glances of relief. Their conspiracy to drain Char Department Store's assets through financial sleight-of-hand was one thing - while ethically questionable, their combined influence could easily smother any legal challenges. But had Madam Char actually expired during these negotiations? That would've transformed a shady business deal into a political minefield.

These weren't the old days where aristocratic titles alone could cow merchant factions into submission. In the current climate, should the United Commerce Guild unite in outrage over such a scandal, the three conspiring families might well face joint boycotts capable of crumbling their financial empires brick by brick.

"Good job!" As the intense turmoil was dissipated before it could escalate, several board members were overjoyed, while the chairperson of the hydropower company let out a sigh of relief and smiled broadly at Leon, saying, "Your salary is doubled this month! Go find your department's... um…"

Glancing at the peculiar employee in a security uniform who was oddly holding a large broom, the chairperson couldn't help but furrow his brow in confusion. "Which department are you from? Security or cleaning?"

"Security! I'm from the security department," Leon replied, again putting on the honest smile he had learned from the old man at the coffee stand. He lowered his head somewhat "shyly" and said with a simple expression, "There have been disturbances outside lately, and our manager was worried that some unsavory characters might blend in and disturb the esteemed guests, so he arranged for us to stand guard outside. If any emergencies arise, we can come in to help, and it turned out we really had to."

"Hmm, very good!" The chairperson nodded in satisfaction and waved him off, saying, "If that's the case, go find your manager, Andrew. Tell him your salary is doubled this month, and the next salary will be increased by an additional 30%! That's it; you can go now!"

"Alright!" Although Leon felt quite displeased with all those people in the room, he understood that he had gathered valuable information and confirmed the whereabouts of one of the targets. Plus, he would soon obtain evidence of the hydropower company's illegal operations. Realizing he had already struck gold, Leon tipped his hat down and prepared to leave with the broom in hand.

However, something strange happened.

The moment Leon turned to leave, the ram's head in the shopping bag swayed with centrifugal force. Razor-sharp horns ripped through the flimsy packaging once more, sending the severed head tumbling onto the boardroom carpet with a dull thud - now staring directly at the group of executives with its clouded eyes.

(⊙⊙)?

(⊙⊙)?

(⊙⊙)?

Wait... why does this feel like déjà vu?

"My... wife fancies lamb head soup," Leon lied through his teeth with rehearsed calmness, already crouching to reclaim his grotesque parcel. "Fresh from the morning market." His fingers closed around the horned skull, poised for strategic retreat while the suits were still processing the absurdity.

But fate had other plans. The ill-fitting security uniform betrayed him - as he bent over, the ID card slipped from its awkwardly positioned breast pocket. It executed two mischievous bounces on the plush carpet before coming to rest at the executives' polished shoes, police department emblem gleaming under the chandelier like an accusation.

(｀Д)!!

(｀Д)!!

(｀Д)!!

The cosmic joke wasn't over. A heavy thud echoed from the conference room entrance. There stood the security chief returned from archives, taking in the surreal tableau: flung-open doors, a VIP convulsing on the floor, and Leon frozen mid-retrieval of his incriminating credentials.

"Not me!" The manager's shriek pierced the air as documents scattered like panicked doves. "He made me do it! I know nothing!"

Leon's mental scream could have shattered crystal: Bloody hell! When did this turn into a damned Greek tragedy?

The instant Leon's perfect act crumbled, he cursed under his breath – Three disasters in one breath? Fucking pantomime! – before pivoting with his broomstick like a matador evading bulls. The security chief's snarling face filled his vision.

"You—"

"You're finished!"

Leon's boot connected with a sickening crunch, launching the man into a decorative suit of armor. Snatching the fallen dossier mid-stride, he became a blur of motion – broom handle clattering against marble as he torpedoed toward the exit.

Even the dimmest boardroom aristocrat understood now. A cacophony of outrage erupted: "SEIZE HIM!" Six voices harmonized into a capitalist choir of fury.

You'll never take me.

Though the mission had detonated spectacularly, Leon's pulse remained steady. The [Bacchus' Martyr] medal at his sternum radiated liquid calm, while Senior Emma's mantra echoed: Always map exits before entry points.

He'd memorized every fire escape and air vent during three perimeter sweeps that morning. Now he charged toward the corporate labyrinth's heart – past gilded boardrooms and R&D vaults – away from the protest-hardened guards at main gates.

"Block him!"

"Apprehend that man!"

The pursuit swelled like an avalanche. Secretaries dropped teacups. Janitors' mop buckets overturned. Soon thirty pairs of patent leather shoes slapped rhythmically behind him, bottlenecking the corridor with human obstruction.

The weight of pilfered documents and occult trinkets slowed Leon's escape. Security's star athletes closed in - three paces behind, their threats booming in stereo:

"Drop the files!"

"Dead end ahead!"

"Give it up!"

Who said anything about running? Leon's gloved hand tightened on the [Witch's Broomstick], its carved runes glowing faintly. The customized artifact's windshroud ruptured with cannon-like force.

What should've been a contained airflow detonated into a localized hurricane, its gale-force winds maliciously focused below waist level. The lead guards - already leaning forward in full sprint - became human dominoes. Foreheads cracked against marble in staccato rhythm. Two particularly unlucky souls kissed pillars with cartoonish bonks.

The secondary wave fared no better - a tangle of limbs and curses as they tripped over fallen comrades. Half the pursuit force became an impromptu roadblock.

"Detour! Detour!"

"Move your asses!"

"Stairwell! He's heading up!"

To their credit, Charr Hydraulics hired athletes, not mall cops. Several guards rode the wind like surfers, while others rose from the pile with bloodied determination. Their polished Oxfords echoed in unified pursuit up the concrete stairs.

Yet another bewildering development unfolded before everyone's eyes.

Leon, bursting into the stairwell, moved with the primal agility of a monkey reclaiming its jungle domain. His lean frame became weightless as rice paper folk art, conquering half a flight with a single gravity-defying leap. When his free hand briefly grazed the railing to dissipate momentum, this apparently unsatisfying pace drove him to drastic measures - clutching both goat's head sculpture and file folder against his chest, broomstick wedged awkwardly underarm, he vaulted clean over the stairwell's central void.

Security guards gaped heavenward like disciples witnessing divine intervention. Their uniformed colleague had abandoned stair-climbing altogether, now "swimming" vertically through the shaft's emptiness. Where others sensed only air, Leon appeared buoyed by water's upward thrust. His wiry body coiled and released like spring steel, exploiting every banister nub and step edge to propel himself two meters per undulation - more buoyant than a wine barrel racing toward ocean surface.

"What... what are you all stopping for?!"

The ashen-faced conference manager roared hoarsely as he stumbled into the stairwell, finding his security team frozen in neck-craning awe. "After him! He's stolen archive records! I don't care if you drop dead chasing, just... just... holy—" The command died as Leon simian-scrambled to the sixth floor, kicked the vent window to crystalline shards, and broomstick-surfed into open sky.

The manager's face cycled through rage's color spectrum - crimson to alabaster to ominous plum. His final strangled cry became operatic disbelief:

"HAH?!?!?!"

...

"Ahahaha! Who'd have thought? Our heart actually lies in the royal capital!"

Disregarding the howling tempest around them, the Black Goat dangling from the broomstick bared its teeth in manic glee. "Insane luck you've got! Barely finished warning you, and bam! You stumble upon one - and the mightiest Heart at that!" Its obsidian hooves clattered against the wooden shaft. "Hurry up and grow stronger, brat! When you're ready, I'll help you wipe out the entire Rianne bloodline and reclaim my Heart within an hour!"

"If we're discussing luck..." Leon ignored the demonic creature's bloodthirsty ramblings as usual. Gripping the broomstick tighter, he frowned at the memory of recent events. "Doesn't today feel... orchestrated to you?"

"Eh?"

"Till we left that conference room, everything went suspiciously smooth." The young man extended his gloved fingers one by one, counting off unnatural coincidences. "I needed intel about your... special livestock - intel conveniently arrived. Wanted to check the hydro company's compensation plan - stumbled upon their emergency board meeting. Tried infiltrating to find who handled your Heart - chaos conveniently erupted right then." His fingers froze mid-count as he touched the security uniform's breast pocket. "And this..."

The wind whipped strands of chestnut hair across his tense face. "Your little shopping bag tumble I could excuse to sudden movements, but this pocket defies logic." His thumb rubbed the reinforced stitching. "I specifically double-knotted the clasp to prevent losing credentials. Yet when I bent over..." Leon's voice dropped, "the threads chose that exact moment to snap, flinging Bureau credentials straight into the security chief's path."

"Then that manager..." His knuckles whitened around the broom handle. "A minute earlier or later, nothing happens. But no - he materialized precisely when he shouldn't have. Doesn't this cascade of 'coincidences' reek of manipulation?"

Disregarding the howling tempest around them, the Black Goat dangling from the broomstick bared its teeth in manic glee. "Insane luck you've got! Barely finished warning you, and bam! You stumble upon one - and the mightiest Heart at that!" Its obsidian hooves clattered against the wooden shaft. "Hurry up and grow stronger, brat! When you're ready, I'll help you wipe out the entire Rianne bloodline and reclaim my Heart within an hour!"

"If we're discussing luck..." Leon ignored the demonic creature's bloodthirsty ramblings as usual. Gripping the broomstick tighter, he frowned at the memory of recent events. "Doesn't today feel... orchestrated to you?"

"Eh?"

"Till we left that conference room, everything went suspiciously smooth." The young man extended his gloved fingers one by one, counting off unnatural coincidences. "I needed intel about your... special livestock - intel conveniently arrived. Wanted to check the hydro company's compensation plan - stumbled upon their emergency board meeting. Tried infiltrating to find who handled your Heart - chaos conveniently erupted right then." His fingers froze mid-count as he touched the security uniform's breast pocket. "And this..."

The wind whipped strands of chestnut hair across his tense face. "Your little shopping bag tumble I could excuse to sudden movements, but this pocket defies logic." His thumb rubbed the reinforced stitching. "I specifically double-knotted the clasp to prevent losing credentials. Yet when I bent over..." Leon's voice dropped, "the threads chose that exact moment to snap, flinging Bureau credentials straight into the security chief's path."

"Then that manager..." His knuckles whitened around the broom handle. "A minute earlier or later, nothing happens. But no - he materialized precisely when he shouldn't have. Doesn't this cascade of 'coincidences' reek of manipulation?"

"This does seem rather absurd... And the number of fortunes exactly matches the misfortunes? Hmm... I see now!"

The black goat blinked thoughtfully before declaring with certainty:

"Boy, today must be your birthday!"

???

Birthday? My birthday isn't for months! And what does that have to do with anything?

"Ah, this particular blessing was... acquired by your Cleanup Bureau from the Star Sovereign's grasp."

Noticing Leon's confusion, the creature chuckled and countered:

"You didn't honestly believe all eighty-seven bureau branches got their names through random chance?"

"Listen well, lad. These eighty-seven divisions collectively form a conceptual-type anomaly - the so-called 'Stellar Aegis' or some such pretentious title. Its function grants Cleanup Bureau agents astral sanctuary from their corresponding zodiac constellations on their birthdays, enabling a form of diluted wish-fulfillment."

"Of course, this watered-down version only assists with achievable objectives. Dream of world domination and you'll receive precisely... nothing."

"That can't be right." Leon frowned, shaking his head in disagreement.

"Wish-fulfillment implies good fortune, yet half my outcomes are cursed!"

"The misfortune proves my point. Did you imagine the Star Sovereign would accept this humiliation meekly?"

The goat's eyes gleamed with dark amusement as it continued:

"Though compelled to grant blessings, that celestial miser retaliated by imposing an equally potent curse. However many favors your agents obtain through birthday blessings, they'll endure matching misfortunes afterward - a cosmic balance of debts repaid."

"That almost makes sense..." Leon's head dipped in momentary acceptance before jerking upward, his brows knitting into stormclouds. "But my birthday passed weeks ago. Today's not even close!"