Chapter 3: Low Rank, Lower Expectations

After that little slice of morning theatre, I just… walked. No hurry. No rush. You probably wonder why I wasn’t sprinting towards my noble duty of slime-wrangling.

Let’s have a quick breakdown, shall we?

First, coffee. I’m not a monster. I stopped at a hole-in-the-wall on the corner where the ajumma knew my order by heart and didn’t ask why an “E-Rank Logistics Adjutant” needed a quad-shot espresso at 8:15 AM. She just slid it over with a sympathetic nod. I took it, paid, and let the beautiful, bitter liquid fuel my soul. Monster-slaying on an empty stomach is for B-Rank masochists and S-Rank lunatics.

Second, and more importantly: rushing implies excitement. Or urgency. This mission had neither. An E-Rank gate, especially one full of garbage-gremlins and sewer-slimes, wasn’t going anywhere. It was less of a crisis and more of a persistent, odorous nuisance.

The destination was a non-descript access point in a back alley of Hongdae, cordoned off with temporary yellow barriers and policed by two bored-looking guys in dark blue tactical vests marked ‘GATE SECURITY’. This wasn’t a frontline; it was admin with extra steps.

The air here was different. Not the crisp winter smell, but a faint, fizzy tang of ozone and something else… earthy, wet, vaguely rotten. The scent of a permeable membrane between our world and somewhere much more damp.

I joined the line. “Line” was a generous term. There were maybe eight people ahead of me. In the grand scheme of Rankers and Hunters, you gotta understand the terminology war.

The Association loves the word “Hunters.” Clean, professional, evokes tradition and skill. We hunt monsters to protect the peace. It sounds good on brochures.

But a lot of us, the grunts especially, prefer “Rankers.” Because the modern system is a ladder. You kill, you clear, you survive, you get ranked up. E to D. D to C. Each rung means better pay, better gear, better living conditions, maybe a shot at a less-crummy apartment. It’s corporate, but honest. You’re ranking up your life.

Hunters? Some of them live for it. The thrill of the fight, the chase inside the gate. It’s a lifestyle, an identity. Do or die. For Rankers like me, it’s Do or don’t-get-paid-this-month. Vastly different motivations.

The two guards at the checkpoint looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. One scanned IDs with a handheld device, the other stared blankly at a tablet, probably monitoring the “vital signs” of the gate. It was stable. Drowsy, even.

“ID,” the scanner guy grunted without looking up.

I fished out my laminated Raider Identification Card. It was actually quite nice. Good photo. Made me look competent. The big, bold ‘E’ in the corner was less nice.

He scanned it. The device beeped, green light. “Ethan. Logistics Adjutant. Clean-Up Crew… ah, you’re the solo replacement. Gate is stable. Manifestation is confirmed as primarily Sewer-Slime biomass and minor Garbage-Gremlin activity. Your objective is to reduce the monster count to facilitate natural dissipation. Try not to slip.” He said it all in a single, monotone breath. He’d clearly given this speech a thousand times.

“My hero,” I muttered, taking my ID back.

I stepped past the barrier. The actual gate wasn’t some grand archway of light. It was a… distortion. Like a heat haze shimmering over a manhole cover that had been pried open, but the hole beneath didn’t lead to sewers. It led to a pocket dimension of slime and sadness. It pulsed softly, a sickly green light emanating from within.

I stood there, looking at the handful of others suiting up. A guy tightening the straps on what looked like a hazmat suit modified with cheap armor plating. A woman checking the sharpness of a long, prod-like spear. Everyone looked tired, under-equipped, and deeply unenthused.

“It’s so… few,” I said to no one in particular.

Clearing an E-Rank gate wasn’t a sprint; it was a marathon of misery. The gate didn’t have a boss to defeat or a core to destroy. It was a leak. A tear. To close it, you had to bleed it dry. You had to kill things. A lot of things.

The dissipation threshold for an E-Rank gate like this? Usually around a thousand monster kills. Sometimes more, if the ambient mana was high. A thousand Sewer-Slimes. A thousand Garbage-Gremlins. It was pest control on a dimensional scale.

That’s why E-Rank gates could linger for weeks if left alone. They weren’t threatening enough to warrant a high-priority, high-power response, but annoying enough that someone had to deal with them eventually. That someone was us. The janitorial corps of the new world.

The pay was calculated per confirmed kill, with a small bonus if you were the one to land the final blow that triggered the dissipation. It was piecework. You could spend eight hours in there, slip-sliding around, killing eighty slimes, and walk out with enough won for a decent dinner and a bus ticket home. If you were fast, ruthless, and didn’t mind being covered in unspeakable gunk, you could make a living.

I had no intention of being fast or ruthless. I was here to meet a quota, maybe snag a useful passive from a particularly interesting slime, and get out before whatever was in that gate decided to evolve a personality.

I took a last sip of my now-lukewarm espresso, tossed the cup in a bin, and approached the shimmering manhole-distortion. The wet, rotten smell grew stronger.

“Alright, you gloopy bastards,” I sighed, cracking my neck. “Daddy’s home. Let’s get this over with.”

The inside of an E-Rank sewer gate was about as glamorous as you’d expect. Think of the worst public bathroom you’ve ever seen, multiply the dampness by ten, add bioluminescent green algae that pulsed with a low, sickly light, and then fill the air with the smell of a compost heap that had died and gone to hell.

For the last twenty minutes, I’d been engaged in the noble art of pest control. My weapon of choice was not a gleaming sword or a crackling spell. It was a collapsible, reinforced baton—a glorified high-tech police stick. Durable, easy to clean, and perfect for whacking slimy blobs.

Thwack. Sploosh.

Thwack. Sploosh.

It was rhythmic. Almost meditative. The Sewer-Slimes were about the size of trash bags, a translucent green with darker, suspended chunks of… stuff. They moved with a slow, gelatinous ooze. Not fast. Not smart. Just persistent. Their primary attack was a feeble lunge, hoping to engulf you and slowly digest your boots. My primary defense was stepping slightly to the left and bringing the baton down on their amorphous “head.”

I was near the exit. I’d carved a meandering path through the slime population, aiming not for maximum carnage, but for maximum efficiency with minimal effort. A little sprint straight, a sharp turn left past a dripping pipe, one more turn, and I’d be back at the gate distortion. A clean, easy escape. Perfect.

I dispatched one last slime with a solid overhead strike. It gave a pathetic gurgle and collapsed into a puddle of shimmering goo. The puddle didn’t just lie there. It began to slowly, visibly dissipate, the matter unraveling into motes of faint green light that rose and faded into the damp air.

This was my moment.

I focused, extending my hand palm-down over the dissipating remains. It wasn’t a gesture of power; it felt more like siphoning. A faint, cold sensation prickled in my fingertips. From the fading green light, a wisp of something darker, more concentrated—a deep, emerald essence—coalesced and streamed into my palm. It felt like inhaling a mint after brushing your teeth, but in your soul. If your soul was a filing cabinet.

[Soul Theft: Sewer-Slime (E-Rank)]

[Ability Acquired: Minor Corrosion Resistance]

[Integration Progress: 52%]

And there it was. The catch. The big, fat asterisk on my “antagonist-tier” power.

I don’t steal a monster’s full, glorious soul buffet. I get the leftovers. The half-eaten sandwich of its essence. The ability I siphon is halved, diluted, incomplete. A Slime’s natural acid resistance? I get Minor Corrosion Resistance. Enough to maybe not get a rash if I spill some cleaning fluid. Not enough to bathe in battery acid.

Useless? To a Hunter, absolutely. To someone trying to become the next Dark Lord, it’s a tragic joke.

But repetition has its own kind of power. If I steal [Minor Corrosion Resistance] from a hundred different Slimes… the effect stacks. It refines. It might become [Moderate Corrosion Resistance]. Eventually, maybe, [Full Slime Immunity]. I could clean public toilets with my bare hands and feel nothing but pride. The ultimate, pointless mastery.

---

Author's Notes:

Well. That's that.

Ethan is in the muck, doing his weirdly specific, ethically-gray janitorial work. He's not conquering, he's... compiling. Slowly, pointlessly, stacking minor resistances like a sad, supernatural hoarder. Is it pathetic? Incredibly. Is it a vibe? Debatably.

A quick aside: Thank you, as always, for reading. You're letting me indulge in this deeply specific power-fantasy of... doing chores and complaining about rent. You're the real ones.

Now, for something a bit different. I'm morbidly curious.

Let's have a quick, completely unscientific, deeply unserious poll.

Are you enjoying Ethan's quest for... whatever this is?

1. The "Oh, Wow, He Sucks" Vote: (You're here for the cringe-comfort of a protagonist whose biggest ambition is to open a pickle jar without straining. His mediocrity is your zen.)

2. The "Please God, Let Him Do Something Cool" Vote: (You're reading through your fingers, begging for him to siphon something actually useful, like flight or fireballs, before you die of secondhand embarrassment.)

3. The "I Am Ethan" Vote: (You, too, are just trying to stack small, barely-noticeable advantages to survive another day in a world that feels like a poorly managed game. You feel seen.)

Don't be shy. Drop a comment number, or just scream into the void. I'll be here, in my nest, trying to figure out what a Garbage-Gremlin's Passive might be. (Probably Passive: Slightly Enhanced Odor).

Until next time, may your own personal slimes be easily dispatched.