"Ah! There he is. Lucien, my boy!"
George's voice boomed with his usual cheer, his thick arms wide open in welcome.
Lucien had just arrived at the site—ground zero of the S-Class Gate that had recently been cleared. The moment he stepped onto the cordoned pavement, the difference was already clear.
There were more people than usual. A crowd of bystanders had gathered behind the yellow barriers, phones out, talking in excited murmurs.
The location—Namdae Lane, surrounded by bustling shopping districts and open-air markets—only made it harder to keep a gate clearing quiet.
And with Lion Fang's elite team taking the job, the media buzz was inevitable.
Lucien adjusted the strap of his bag and approached George, offering a polite, almost shy smile.
"Sir George! How's everything? Did... Did the hunters already leave?"
Of course, that was his first question.
George threw an arm around Lucien's shoulder with a laugh, ruffling his dark hair roughly with his knuckles.
"Still a fanboy, eh? Always chasing after the big guys," he teased, the strength of his hold making it impossible for Lucien to wriggle away.
Lucien groaned, face scrunched. "You know I could file a complaint about this. Workplace harassment."
George just laughed louder, the sound deep and good-natured. "And who the hell on Aerth would help an E-Class like you get high-profile cleanup gigs if you did, huh?"
Lucien sighed. 'He's got me there.'
George had been one of the few people to give Lucien a chance. When Lucien had first applied for dungeon cleaning work, most supervisors didn't even look twice at someone with an E-Class badge.
His skill was barely useful—minor regenerative enhancement, just enough to speed up healing a little.
Not strength. Not speed. Not even a buff spell.
Nothing.
But Lucien worked like his life depended on it. He was fast, precise, and never slacked.
George noticed that, and over the years, brought him to higher-tier cleanups—places where E-Classes were usually unwelcome.
Apparently, today wasn't going to be an exception.
"Ha. That's what I thou—"
"That's the boy you were talking about?" a deep, unimpressed voice interrupted. "When you said you wanted to bring an E-Class, I thought you meant someone who at least looked capable."
Lucien turned.
'Huh?'
A large man approached them—built like a tank, thick neck, arms like steel beams. Lucien had never met him before, which wasn't surprising. Every job meant different teams, different temp workers.
'He doesn't seem friendly.'
The man's eyes narrowed, looking Lucien over with thinly veiled disgust.
Lucien didn't flinch. He was used to that look.
George stepped forward protectively. "Yeah, Zestiel, this is him. He may not have flash, but he gets the job done. Trust me, I've taken him to more A-Class sites than you've had hangovers."
"Tch." Zestiel scoffed, clearly not convinced. "Just make sure he doesn't screw anything up. S-Class dungeons ain't playgrounds, and can't even be compared to A-Class dungeons. One missed shard, one chip from a weapon, and boom—half the street goes up in flames."
With that, Zestiel brushed past George—and shouldered straight into Lucien.
Hard.
Lucien stumbled, caught off guard, and hit the concrete with a heavy thud. His hands scraped the rough ground as he caught himself.
A jolt of pain shot up his elbow.
"Damn," he muttered under his breath, eyes flicking up to glare.
Zestiel didn't even look back. He barked out a laugh over his shoulder. "Excuse you, chump."
The rest of his crew chuckled, muttering something Lucien couldn't hear but could feel.
'Of course. One of those teams.' Lucien sighed inwardly. 'Fucking assholes.'
George immediately offered a hand. "You alright, kid?"
Lucien took it, letting himself be pulled up. "Yeah. Nothing I can't handle." He dusted his palms and jeans off with quiet dignity.
Still, he couldn't help the small tremor of frustration simmering under his calm.
"Who the hell was that jerk?"
George frowned, then without warning, flicked his fingers hard against Lucien's forehead.
"Ow—what the hell was that for?!" Lucien hissed, recoiling and clutching his head, glaring.
"Keep your voice down," George muttered, low and sharp.
He glanced over his shoulder before grabbing Lucien by the collar of his vest and yanking him closer to the barricades where the massive, portal-like gate shimmered in the air, pulsing like a living thing.
"That 'jerk' you're mouthing off about? He's one of the top cleaners in Korenea. He's the guy who gets called in for S-Class and A-Class dungeon cleans. Not just anybody gets that."
Lucien stumbled a bit from the force of the pull, but as he righted himself, the sight ahead froze him in place.
The gate.
It towered like a tear in the very fabric of space. Iridescent blues and deep violets swirled like liquid starlight, and Lucien could feel its energy crackling against his skin, static and ancient.
Like the heartbeat of something monstrous waiting just beyond.
His mouth parted slightly.
"...Shit," he breathed. He'd seen gates before—but nothing like this.
"The guy may be rude as hell, but he's Lion's Fang's and Verdant Claw's go-to guy for cleanup jobs. That's saying something."
Lucien's eyes widened, something tight twisting in his chest.
'He's… that important? No way. That arrogant prick?'
His gaze darted to where Zestiel stood, arms crossed, barking quiet orders to some of the senior cleaners.
'So that jerk really is a big deal.' Lucien frowned, feeling the weight of his first impression collapse in on itself. 'Then… he must really be good at this.'
What a shame.
He was still a complete asshole.
"Pfft."
Lucien blinked and looked over to George, who was trying and failing to hide his grin.
"What?" Lucien asked, brow furrowing. "Why are you laughing so suddenly?"
"You're an open book, kid. You've got that classic 'shame-he's-a-dick' look all over your face." George laughed, shaking his head. "Bet you're thinking something like, 'How unfortunate that someone with actual skills is such a damn bastard,' right?"
Lucien's eyes widened a fraction. He looked away too quickly.
"I mean—it's probably a common thought. I'm sure everyone thinks that when they meet him."
"Uh-huh," George said, amused. "Sure, sure. Anyway, straighten up. We're probably going in soon. Two-hour time limit means no slacking. Here."
He handed Lucien a neatly bundled pack of cleaning supplies—disinfectant tools, crystal scoops, containment vials, and a few talisman-stamped bags for corrupted fragments. Lucien took them with careful hands, nerves crawling up his arms.
On cue, a deliberate clearing of the throat cut through the low ambient noise.
Zestiel stepped forward, his presence demanding attention like a whip cracking through silence. Tall, sharp-jawed, with sun-tanned skin and a buzz cut that made him look even meaner than he already was—he radiated that particular brand of hostility that didn't need to yell to be dangerous.
He looked over the assembled crew like a general before war.
"Listen up," Zestiel barked, voice gravel and steel. "This isn't your baby's first cleanup job. This is an S-Class gate. That means even after the raid team's cleared the monsters, we can still get our asses handed to us if we're not careful."
He paused, his eyes narrowing as they fell on Lucien like a hawk spotting a wounded animal.
"And that means no screw-ups. Especially not from E-Class tagalongs who got in here because someone needed a warm body."
Lucien flinched, fingers tightening on the strap of his supply bag.
'He doesn't even know me, and he's already got me marked for failure.'
Zestiel turned away, already done with the conversation in his head. "I don't care how weak you are. I don't care if you're new. You do your damn job. You don't cry. You don't panic. And most importantly—you do not get in anyone's way."
He motioned to the gate behind him, the swirling light now growing unstable, vibrating in warning.
"We've got two hours before this thing collapses in on itself. That's two hours to clear, extract, and file everything. You see anything moving, you don't engage. You call it out. Got it?"
A few murmurs of assent rolled through the group. George elbowed Lucien lightly to say something.
Lucien stiffened. "Got it," he echoed.
"Good." Zestiel smirked—if it could be called that. "Try not to die. I hate paperwork."
And with that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the gate with the confidence of someone who'd done this more times than he could count. The rest of the team began moving in groups, adjusting gear and checking timepieces.
Lucien stared at the gate, his heart pounding in his chest.
"Nobody ever dies in a cleanup job," Lucien muttered under his breath, eyes locked on the pulsing gate ahead. "And I'm not gonna be the exception. Even if I'm just E-Class…"
But he couldn't say that out loud.