No one ever called it by its full name, the Korean Environmental Sanitation Union. Everyone just called it the Cleaner Guild. In the silence of the empty office, a modest party was underway.

There was only one attendee. The middle-aged man, more commonly known as the manager, opened a bottle of whiskey he had saved for a special occasion.

Pop!

The manager, who had spent his entire life drinking only soju, took a moment to savor the scent of whiskey before taking a swig straight from the bottle. The sensation of the 30-proof alcohol sliding down his throat was fantastic.

It was a taste well worth saving, despite his subordinates' hints to drink it sooner.

Having washed down the whiskey, the manager leaned back into his chair.

It was a perfect night.

He had taken care of a long-standing problem and, in return, had stacks of cash piled on his desk. And not in Korean won with President Lee Seung-bok’s face on it, but in U.S. dollars with Benjamin Franklin smiling back at him.

The manager picked up one of the bundles and took in the smell. The musty scent of cash—sweeter than anything in this world.

“Perfect, absolutely perfect.”

And it was all thanks to the infamous killer who had been making waves recently.

Three days ago, the killer had demanded, without much explanation, that the manager hand over exactly ten people to kill.

It was a madman’s demand, fitting for a serial killer. The problem was, the manager had no way to fulfill it. After all, he was a guild manager, not a human trafficker.

But refusing wasn’t an option. The killer had already left too many bodies in his wake.

In the end, he turned to his superiors for help. He’d asked for their support in dealing with the madman, but they solved the problem in an entirely different way.

• Ten employees? Just give them to him. There are some people we need to get rid of anyway.

The manager quickly realized who these “expendable people” were.

The foreman, who had dared to defy the higher-ups, and the stupid cleaners who had blindly followed him. The higher-ups had decided to use this opportunity to eliminate the foreman, and the numbers conveniently added up to ten.

Rather than feeling scared or guilty, the manager followed their orders without hesitation. Thankfully, the higher-ups hadn’t said a word about the bonus money that would come his way after the job was done.

Silence is golden, as they say. He interpreted their silence like this:

‘Keep what you can for yourself.’

And that’s exactly what he did.

The wages meant for the cleaners, the small “bounty” the killer had paid for their lives… and the foreman’s hidden wealth. He had made more in one night than he could ever have imagined.

The biggest chunk of it came from the foreman’s savings. Rumors had long circulated that he was rich, but the manager hadn’t expected it to be this much.

‘He must have had that money stashed away to give him the courage to stand up to the higher-ups.’

But still...

‘He should have known his place. That idiot died for nothing, all because he didn’t understand his limits.’

In a show of mock respect, the manager took another swig of whiskey. The warmth of the alcohol spread pleasantly through his body.

He savored the moment, letting the pleasant buzz fill him.

After about ten minutes, the manager stood up and pulled out a large bag and a small bundle from under the desk. It was a cheap bag, the kind you’d find at a street market, with no decorations or brand names.

But the bag’s value came from what it would soon hold.

He immediately began stuffing the cash bundles into the bag. Why put the money in a bag instead of a safe?

‘This much money is dangerous to keep all for myself.’

It was blood money, but not as important as actual blood. You had to spread the wealth around to avoid trouble down the line.

The higher-ups, the government officials who covered his back, and the police—money for all of them was neatly packed into the bag. Maybe it was the whiskey, but by the time he was halfway done packing the bundles, sweat was dripping from his brow.

The manager wiped his brow and stood up straight, admiring the bags of money like a proud farmer surveying his harvest. Those bags were his lifeline, and the thought made him smile.

He reached for the largest bag, ready to fill it with his share.

Crash! Something shattered behind him.

Startled, the manager spun around and saw something coming through the window.

‘What the hell? This is the fourth floor!’

Had that psycho killer come to finish him off too?

Panicking, the manager pulled a gun from his desk drawer. He stood awkwardly, aiming it at the figure climbing through the window.

But then... the figure looked familiar. Covered in blood and filth, it was wearing a cleaner’s uniform and a gas mask.

“Manager.”

“You... who the hell are you?”

“Why did you do it?”

The cleaner, who had broken in through the window, started spouting nonsense. The manager thought about running, but the bags of cash on the desk stopped him.

Money gave him courage. He gripped the gun with both hands and shouted at the approaching cleaner.

“Who are you, you bastard?!”

“Why did you sell us to him?”

Sell? The manager’s eyes narrowed as the meaning behind those words sank in.

“...The foreman?”

There was no reply. The manager’s mind raced.

Could one of the cleaners he had handed over to the killer still be alive?

It had to be. There was no other explanation for why this guy was saying such things.

‘Damn it, that idiot killer couldn’t even finish off one cleaner properly?’

The manager quickly went over his options, trying to figure out which cleaner could have survived and had the guts to pull something like this.

The foreman was too old, and the guys around Duckbae’s age didn’t have the nerve for this.

That left the younger ones… James had a foreign accent, and Dung Beetle had always been too quiet to cause trouble.

The only one left was Chunsik.

Having reached a conclusion, the manager licked his dry lips and spoke again.

“Chunsik, man, you need to think about surviving. What are you doing, coming back here?”

His palms were sweaty as he gripped the gun. Damn it, the manager had no idea when the cleaner would make a move. But he didn’t charge at him right away. Instead, the cleaner kept talking in that strange, distant voice.

“Just answer the question. Why did you sell us out?”

“Sell you out? Don’t you remember your precious foreman going up against the higher-ups? You’re just a damn maggot, supposed to move corpses, but you idiots actually thought you could stand up to them? What did you think was going to happen?”

“For that... pathetic reason?”

“Pathetic? Do you even realize how much money we lost because you maggots refused to loot the corpses and hand them over to City Hall?”

Bang! The manager fired the gun. The cleaner dropped to the floor, hit in the thigh.

“Damn it, you idiot! I was a sharpshooter in the military, you know that?!”

The fact that he had been aiming for the head and only hit the thigh wasn’t something he planned to mention.

Damn. Now calmer, the manager steadied his trembling breath and picked up the whiskey bottle.

“Stupid bastard. You think money’s a joke? People die for money every day, both in Africa and beyond the dimensional gates, you moron.”

His words were nonsense from beginning to end. Even the manager didn’t believe what he was saying.

But what did it matter?

The important thing was that the cleaner was lying on the ground, bleeding, while the manager was still standing.

“...At least, I agree with you on one thing.”

The cleaner, lying on the floor, didn’t argue or get angry at the manager’s gibberish.

He just sighed and, through his gas mask, glared with a murderous intensity.

“I agree that you’re going to die.”

The whiskey and the gun gave the manager confidence. He took another swig of whiskey, then approached the cleaner with full confidence.

“And I agree that some people die for money.”

“You bastard... you really don’t get it, do you? You come back from death’s door, and now you think you’re untouchable?”

The manager got close enough to ensure he wouldn’t miss this time. As he aimed the gun at the cleaner’s head, a dozen thoughts flitted through his mind about what to do next—how to dispose of the body, how much to bribe the police responding to the gunshot—but none of that mattered.

“You’re dead.”

He tightened his grip on the trigger.

And then, suddenly, the cleaner sprang to his feet.

“Ugh?!”

The manager couldn’t react in time to the sudden attack.

Bang! The shot went wide, and the cleaner headbutted the manager square in the jaw.

Crack! The sickening sound of breaking teeth and bone filled the room as the manager’s head spun.

‘No, I can’t pass out like this...’

That was the last thought the manager had before something hit his head again, and unbearable pain plunged him into darkness.

  
   ***
     

“Ugh...ugh…”

The manager groaned like a dog left out in the rain as he slowly regained consciousness. The pain was so intense that he couldn’t open his eyes for a long time, tossing and turning as he tried to ease the discomfort.

“Help... help me…”

No one answered his pitiful plea. He tried to rub his eyes, but his arms were bound, making even the smallest movement difficult.

Eventually, after several minutes, the manager managed to open his eyes.

“You're awake?”

Through his blurred vision, he saw a familiar black gas mask—the kind worn by the guild cleaners.

“You... who are you?”

“Surprised it’s not Chunsik?”

“D-... Duckbae? Duckbae, this is all a misunderstanding. I can explain everything.”

“Duckbae Ahjussi… How dare you even say his name?”

The cleaner spoke quietly, then slowly removed the gas mask.

The first thing to appear was the sharp jawline of a young man who hadn’t yet fully grown. His black hair, damp with sweat and blood, fell over his face. Then, the eyes—those eerie, golden eyes that glimmered like molten gold.

“Golden eyes…?”

Eyes that gleamed like liquid gold, unsettling and cold. The manager knew only one cleaner with eyes like that.

“Dung Beetle… how are you alive?”

“Why, am I supposed to be dead?”

“…”

The manager’s mind raced. How could he survive this? Should he appeal to the cleaner's emotions? Or should he try to threaten him?

“You… insane bastard!”

He decided on the latter.

“Do you even know what you’ve done? Do you realize the mess you’ve made?!”

The manager’s memory of Dung Beetle was of a quiet, hardworking guy—someone who would do whatever was asked, no matter how unpleasant the task. He figured that if he shouted a little, Dung Beetle might back down...

“W-wait, what are you doing?”

But contrary to his expectations, Dung Beetle didn’t flinch.

Instead, he did something far more terrifying. He pulled out a large container of gasoline from behind his back and walked steadily toward the manager.

“Wait! Wait!”

Dung Beetle unscrewed the cap and poured the gasoline over the manager's head. The stench of the fuel overwhelmed him.

“…”

It was only then that the manager took in his surroundings. In the dim light, he saw mountains of corpses piled around him.

This was the huge body warehouse where the guild stored bodies they had collected and hidden.

The manager realized just how deeply he was in trouble. A guy who had been shot in the leg had somehow dragged an unconscious man from the office all the way here? That didn’t make any sense.

While the manager’s mind struggled to process reality, Dung Beetle finally spoke.

“Manager, I’m going to give you a chance.”

“A chance? What chance?”

“A chance to not burn alive.”

Dung Beetle pulled a lighter from his pocket.

“It’s simple. I’ll ask questions, and you’ll answer.”

“…”

Click. Click. The sound of the lighter flicking open and shut filled the silence.

By the time the manager managed to nod in agreement, Dung Beetle spoke again.

“First question. Was this ordered by the higher-ups?”

“…Y-yeah, when the killer demanded ten people to kill, the higher-ups said it was a good opportunity to give him your team... they ordered me to hand over all of you. Please, believe me! I was just following orders.”

“…”

The manager swallowed hard. The murderous glint in Dung Beetle’s golden eyes was terrifying.

“Second question. What is this body warehouse?”

The manager squeezed his eyes shut. That was a question he really shouldn’t answer. If he revealed the truth, he might survive this moment, but he would certainly die later. The higher-ups would never let him live if he exposed the secret.

But if he didn’t answer, he’d die right now.

Tears—or was it gasoline—dripped from the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“This warehouse… it’s the reason the Cleaner Guild exists.”

“The reason?”

“You’ve heard the urban legends about the Cleaner Guild, haven’t you?”

“You mean the rumors about running a human meat factory or supplying bodies to necromancers?”

“Yeah, those rumors. Half of them are true.”

Half true? Dung Beetle frowned.

The human meat factory bit was nonsense, of course. Butchery is a delicate process, requiring large-scale slaughterhouses and refrigeration facilities.

Storing corpses in a warehouse like this? What kind of fresh meat could you deliver like that? It would be rotten before you could sell it.

So that left one option: the necromancer connection. But even that was hard to believe.

“You expect me to believe that?”

Dung Beetle’s voice dropped, and the manager cowered as he spoke.

“It’s hard to believe, I know. But it’s the truth. I swear on it.”

“The Cleaner Guild is government-run, isn’t it? You’re telling me they’ve partnered with necromancers, who are classified as terrorists by the U.S.?”

When Dung Beetle moved the lighter closer, the manager jerked back in panic.

“T-this is an era where red communists openly meet with the U.S. president. Why would it be so strange for the Korean government to make deals with terrorists?”

Afraid the flame might catch, the manager scrambled to explain.

“I don’t know how far the government’s involvement goes. I’m just a middleman in all this. But one thing I do know for sure—the Cleaner Guild has been doing this for over 20 years.”

“Bullshit. What could the government possibly gain from necromancers?”

Click. The lighter flicked open again, and the manager shouted in desperation.

“The, the awakening potion! The government receives awakening potions from them!”

“Awakening potions?”

“Yeah, damn it, the elixir that can turn a normal Earthling into a mana-user with a one-in-five chance! Necromancers supply the government with those.”

“…”

“Hah… hahaha… Do you think it’s a coincidence that this tiny country has more wizards than all of South America combined? You think they built some kind of Hogwarts?”

It was a plausible story. After all, Korea was known for producing an unusually high number of wizards.

The government claimed it was due to the dimensional gate that opened in Kaesong, but... honestly, the necromancer deal made more sense.

“Any proof? You got any proof?”

“The damn warehouse is the proof! Does this look like an ordinary storage facility to you? It’s under a preservation spell to keep the bodies from rotting and sealed so no odor escapes!”

When the manager screamed, Dung Beetle took another look around the warehouse.

It was true. With so many bodies decomposing, the smell should have been unbearable. But a single gas mask was enough to block out the stench? That couldn’t be explained without magic.

“If not necromancers, who else would create a place like this? Please, please believe me. Why would I lie at a time like this?”

The manager’s voice was full of desperation. He wanted to live. There was so much money he hadn’t spent yet, so much happiness he hadn’t enjoyed. He couldn’t die here.

But Dung Beetle didn’t seem fully convinced. His golden eyes narrowed as he stared down at the manager, trying to decide if he was telling the truth.

“If what you say is true, when do the necromancers come to collect the bodies? They must have a schedule.”

“Three days from now! Three days from now is when they’re scheduled to pick up the bodies! The rendezvous point is at the closed-off Dock 13 at Incheon Port!”

The manager didn’t hold back, even spilling classified information. He had already said too much to stop now.

“Three days…”

Dung Beetle fell silent again. The manager feared that silence almost as much as the threats.

“Isn’t there anything else you want to ask? I’ll tell you everything I know, just spare me.”

“There’s nothing else. You probably don’t know much anyway.”

“So...you’ll let me live, right?”

Dung Beetle didn’t answer, just stared down at him with those golden eyes filled with disgust and hatred.

The silence lasted long enough for the gasoline mixed with cold sweat to drip down the manager’s face. Finally, Dung Beetle clenched his fist, as if making a decision, and slipped the lighter back into his pocket.

“As promised. I’ll let you live.”

The manager sighed in relief. At the same time, he mocked Dung Beetle in his mind. Fool. You really think you can just let me live?

“Thank you. Really, thank you...”

Outwardly, he kept up the act of a helpless, grateful man. There was no need to stir up trouble now.

As long as he survived this moment, he’d have plenty of chances to get revenge later. But first, he’d have to flee the country and give up his managerial position in the guild.

In any case, Dung Beetle disappeared into the darkness, leaving the manager behind.

The manager only relaxed after Dung Beetle’s footsteps faded completely. He clutched his chest, feeling his racing heart begin to calm down.

“Damn it, could’ve at least untied me.”

Groaning, the manager struggled with the ropes binding his limbs. He had almost freed one arm when something strange tickled his nose.

A smell… like burning meat...

“God…damn it…”

The smell was coming from the direction Dung Beetle had gone. The manager turned his head just in time to see black smoke and the flicker of rising flames.

“You…you bastard…”

There was no escape. The warehouse had no ventilation, no windows. Everything had been designed to keep the magic seals intact, with no way for air to escape.

Even if he could break through the door before the flames engulfed the entire building...

But with gasoline soaked into every inch of him from head to toe, that possibility was meaningless.

“You goddamn bastard!!!”

The manager realized he was doomed to sit and burn, waiting for his inevitable end.