I Siphon the Dead to Become the Strongest

I don’t know if I can surpass the original monster’s own power. I’ve never cared enough to try. My ambition starts and ends with “something to clean, something to eat, a place to sleep, and… video games.” A place to sleep and video games. Obviously.

I was pondering the profound philosophical implications of stacking a thousand minor conveniences when I heard the wet shlorp behind me.

Instinct, born of a thousand low-stakes encounters, made me start to turn. But I was too slow, too lost in thought. A second Sewer-Slime I’d missed, or one that had reformed, was lunging for my back.

A blur of motion. A sharp, clean shing sound that cut through the dripping silence of the sewer.

The slime didn’t splatter. It was bisected with such surgical precision that for a second, the two halves hovered in the air before collapsing into twin puddles.

Standing between the halves, her boots not even slightly damp, was the woman from the street. Her short, yellowish hair seemed to almost glow in the sickly green bioluminescence. Those cool gray eyes were fixed on me.

“You should be more careful,” she said, her voice echoing slightly in the cavernous pipe. “Wasn’t that your whole business model? Staying out of trouble?”

She flicked her wrist. The sword in her hand—and holy shit, what a sword—dissipated. Not vanished, but dissolved from the tip down into wisps of crimson smoke that coiled around her gauntlet before fading. It had been a blade of dark metal, but the crossguard and hilt were sculpted to look like overlapping dragon scales, glowing with a deep, inner ember. It was so badass it hurt to look at. The kind of weapon that had a name and a tragic backstory.

My brain, in its infinite wisdom, processed several things at once:

She saved me from a mildly embarrassing slime-back-hug.

She had a sword that could probably cut a car in half and she made it disappear.

Looking at her now, in the tactical leathers, the way the armor molded to her torso… she had more defined abs than I did. And I had Three Times Grip Strength. It was an injustice.

“Yeah. Um. Thanks,” I managed, my voice sounding thinner than I’d like. Did she see? Did she see the green energy stream into my hand? Was I about to be outed as a soul-sucking freak and reported to the Association’s weird-power division?

I shook my head, panic giving way to a more practical confusion. “What are you doing here?” I gestured at her, then at the dismal surroundings. “This is E-Rank slime duty. You look like you hunt… I don’t know, lava dragons for fun.”

She almost smiled. Just a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Observation.”

“Of what? My impeccable slime-whacking form?”

“Of the gate.” She nodded upwards, though there was only dripping stone. “This E-Rank gate is… anomalous. The energy signature spikes and drops erratically every few hours. It shouldn’t. Not for simple biological waste manifestations like Sewer-Slimes.”

I blinked. “So you’re… gate-checking?”

She looked at me, her head tilting slightly. “Call it a hunch. And hunches in our line of work are often the only warning you get.” Her eyes scanned the tunnel ahead, where the green glow seemed to pulse a little brighter. “Be more vigilant than you have been, Ethan. Careless is not a sustainable business model.”

With that, she turned and walked deeper into the sewer, away from the exit, her form swallowed by the shadows and the ever-present drip-drip-drip of the gate.

I stood there for a good minute after the mysterious, abs-flaunting woman vanished into the gloom. The philosophical gears in my head, lubricated by cynicism and cheap coffee, started turning.

Maybe life’s like a sewer-slime, I thought, staring at the last puddle dissolving at my feet. It’s mostly unpleasant goo, but if you look hard enough, you might find a half-digested candy wrapper of wisdom. And occasionally, someone with a magic sword shows up to remind you that you’re standing in poop.

Deep. I should write that down. Probably sell it as a self-help book for disgruntled E-Rankers.

I shook off the profound thought and assessed my situation. I was about halfway through the main tunnel, the exit a comforting thought behind me. The green, pulsing light ahead seemed… thicker. But my personal quota was feeling satisfied.

“Alright, that’s probably enough,” I muttered to the dripping walls. “Let’s call it eighty slimes. A good day’s work. Time to clock out, collect my pittance, and go home to see if Mia actually finished her homework.”

I checked my internal sense—the weird, non-visual dashboard that came with my soul-stealing ability. The integration for [Minor Corrosion Resistance] now sat at 62%. Each slime’s diluted soul gave about 0.5% towards solidifying the ability. Stacking it was the real grind. The first 50% came quick, like filling a cup. The next 50% was like trying to fill the same cup with an eyedropper, while the cup kept getting bigger. The law of diminishing returns, applied to stealing the essence of garbage monsters. Poetic.

I was just about to execute my strategic retreat (walking briskly away) when two figures emerged from a side passage to my right.

First, a woman. She looked to be in her late twenties, with long brown hair tied back in a practical, severe ponytail. Her gear was minimal: form-fitting, dark brown leather armor that offered freedom of movement over heavy protection. Strapped to her right shoulder pauldron was a neat row of throwing daggers. An archer or a scout, built for speed and precision.

Beside her was a man, probably in his thirties, with a tired face and a short, practical haircut. He wasn’t heavily armored either; instead, he wore what looked like a modified tactical harness over a simple tunic, with small silver plates strapped at key joints—lightweight, focused defense. He moved with a small, quick pace, eyes constantly scanning.

They both looked worried. And they were looking straight at me.

The man spoke first, his voice tense but polite. “Excuse me. Have you seen someone come through this way? Our comrade. We got separated.”

I blinked. “Uh. Depends. I haven’t seen anyone else come from this direction.” I gestured back the way I’d come. “Just me, the slimes, and the profound existential dread.”

The woman beside him stepped forward slightly. “She’s about your age,” she added, her voice clearer, more focused. “Pink hair. Medium length. Blue eyes. She carries a long-hafted axe, about this big.” She held her hands about five feet apart.

A mental image formed. A pink-haired, blue-eyed axe-wielder in a sewer. Sounded like someone who took her character creation very seriously.

“Got it,” I said, nodding. “Pink eyes, blue hair. Long axe. Will keep an eye out.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. “Um. It’s pink hair. Blue eyes.”

“Right, right,” I said, waving a hand. “Semantics in a life-or-death situation. Pink hair, blue eyes. Axe. I’ll let her know you’re looking if I see her.”

The man nodded, relief and anxiety warring on his face. “Thank you. If you see her, please tell her Zane and Kaela are looking for her. We’re heading deeper to—”

He was cut off.

Not by me. Not by a slime.

By a scream.

It echoed down the stone tunnels, distorted by distance and pipework, but unmistakably human. And unmistakably terrified. A young woman’s voice, high-pitched and cutting through the constant drip-drip like a shard of glass.

Zane’s face went pale. “That’s her! LINDIS!”

He didn’t hesitate. He took off at a dead sprint, Kaela right on his heels, her movements fluid and silent compared to his frantic charge. They vanished around a bend in the tunnel, the sound of their footsteps quickly swallowed by the sewer’s acoustics.

I was left alone again, the echo of the scream still ringing in my ears.

“Great,” I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Just perfect.”

A little voice in my head, the one that liked warm beds and not being eaten, said: You have your eighty slimes. Your integration is at 62%. The exit is right there. This is not your problem. These are not your people. You are an E-Rank Logistics Adjutant, not a search-and-rescue hero. Go home. Cook dinner. Tease Mia.

But another voice, quieter, dustier from lack of use, piped up. It sounded annoyingly like my own voice, but from a time before I decided cowardice was a valid lifestyle. You’re a good guy, Ethan. You might not look like it. You might not act like it. But helping people who need it… isn’t that something you need to do? Even if no one’s ever helped you?

I cursed under my breath. Violently.

This was exactly the kind of trope I avoided. The lone, reluctant hero drawn into someone else’s mess. This is how B-plots started. This is how you got a fan club you didn’t want.

But the image of Zane’s terrified face, the sound of that scream… and the thought of Mia, alone and scared in a ruined store all those years ago.

“Damn it all,” I growled.

I tightened my grip on my collapsible baton, the Three Times Grip Strength making the metal creak slightly in my hand. My [Low-Light Vision] adjusted, piercing the gloom ahead. My [Minor Corrosion Resistance] probably wouldn’t help against whatever made a girl with a battle-axe scream like that, but it was something.

“Fine,” I muttered to the empty tunnel. “But I’m billing you for overtime.”

And with a sense of profound irritation at my own stupid conscience, I turned my back on the exit and sprinted after Zane and Kaela, deeper into the pulsing, green heart of the E-Rank gate.

---

Author’s Notes:

Look at him go. A reluctant hero who bills by the hour. Never change, Ethan. Never change.

Quick clarification for the uninitiated: In the official Association parlance, an ”E-Rank Logistics Adjutant” is not a combat role. It’s a very polite, very bureaucratic term for ”the person we send in to mop up after the real problem is gone.” It means you’re not expected to fight anything stronger than a mildly aggressive cleaning supply. You’re the janitor of the apocalypse.

It’s a title worn by people who have plateaued. Who’ve accepted that their place in the new world order is to handle the chores the real Hunters can’t be bothered with. It’s a fancy way of saying ”You exist to clean the E-Rank gates so they don’t become D-Rank gates.” Glamorous, I know.

And now, our favorite Logistics Adjutant is sprinting towards a scream. Because even janitors have a line.

What do you think is waiting for him? Another slime? Or has the ”anomalous energy signature” our mysterious sword-lady mentioned decided to throw the party early?

As always, you are the fuel. Comments, theories, or just keyboard smashes are all valid currency here.