The alarm on the desk didn’t just ring; it rattled against the cheap wood, a harsh, metallic buzzing that felt like a needle poking straight into Ren’s brain.

He didn’t move for a long time. He just lay there under the thin blanket, staring blankly at the cracked plaster on his ceiling while the room slowly filled with the gray, dull light of early morning. With a heavy groan, he reached out, swung his arm, and slammed his hand down on the button. Silence flooded the small room, save for the faint sound of traffic from the city streets three floors below.

Ren slowly pushed himself up, his back popping in three different places. He sat on the edge of the mattress, letting his feet dangle over the cold linoleum floor. His muscles ached, a deep, heavy soreness that had become his permanent shadow over the last few months.

He rested his elbows on his knees and stared at his calloused palms. For a second, his mind drifted back to the small town he grew up in, far away from the neon lights and towering concrete skyscrapers of this city. He remembered hot afternoons spent running through open dirt fields with the neighborhood kids, playing makeshift games of soccer until the sun dipped below the horizon. Back then, nobody cared about ranks. They were just children. His mother would call him in for dinner, the smell of roasted rice and spices drifting through the front door, and his biggest worry in the world was whether he’d get to play again the next day. It had been so simple. So loud, warm, and bright.

Ren let out a short, bitter breath and rubbed his face with his hands.

"Wake up," he muttered to himself, the sound of his own rough voice breaking the quiet. "That kid is dead."

He stood up, his knees cracking as he forced his body to move. He walked over to the tiny, cramped bathroom, twisting the rusty faucet over the sink. He waited a few seconds, but the water stayed stubbornly lukewarm, never quite hitting the hot temperature he wanted. Whining softly under his breath, he splashed the water onto his face anyway, shivering as the cold shock cleared the last remnants of sleep from his eyes.

Looking into the cracked mirror, he grabbed his worn-out toothbrush. He looked completely exhausted. His dark hair was a messy, tangled bird's nest, and there were faint dark circles bruising the skin under his eyes.

"Another day of scrubbing floors," he mumbled around a mouthful of toothpaste, leaning against the sink. "Another day of picking up after people who think they’re gods."

He hated his job. He hated the city. Most of all, he hated the fact that because he was born an E-rank, this was the only kind of work he could get to keep a roof over his head. While the high-society elites spent their mornings in luxury high-rises, drinking expensive coffee and talking about their magical scripts, Ren had to get dressed in a plain, stain-resistant black jumpsuit.

He pulled the zipper up to his throat, grabbed his heavy duffel bag full of bleach, industrial brushes, and chemical sprays, and checked his reflection one last time. He looked exactly like what he was: a harmless, invisible cleaner.

With a deep sigh, Ren grabbed his keys, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the damp, rainy morning air, completely unaware that this would be the last normal day of his life.

The wet air hit his face like a slap, bringing with it the familiar smell of exhaust fumes and wet concrete. He walked down the metal fire escape stairs, his heavy boots making a dull clanking sound that was swallowed up by the noise of the waking city.

Everywhere he looked, the world was flashing with light. Giant digital billboards stretched up into the low-hanging clouds, showing off the flawless faces of A-rank and S-rank celebrities. They were advertising everything from high-end energy drinks that boosted soul scripts to luxury cars that only locked when they scanned a high-tier aura.

Ren kept his gaze fixed on the sidewalk, dodging the puddles that had formed in the cracks of the asphalt. He blended seamlessly into the crowd of morning commuters—just another low-tier worker heading off to a shift that paid barely enough to cover rent and a bowl of cheap noodles.

He reached the subway station, pushing through the rusted turnstiles that always groaned when an E-rank walked through. The train ride was forty minutes of being pressed against cold glass and smelling other people's damp raincoats. By the time the automated voice announced his stop in the Lower East District, Ren's shoulder was already throbbing from the weight of his duffel bag.

This part of the city didn't have the bright, pristine neon of the upper districts. Here, the signs were missing letters, flickering rhythmically in the dim alleys. It was the kind of place where high-ranking syndicates did exactly what they wanted, knowing the authorities wouldn't bother looking too closely.

Ren walked down a narrow side street until he saw the flickering hazard lights of a black sedan parked across the sidewalk. Standing near a heavy metal door was a man in a sharp tailored suit, looking entirely out of place among the overflowing trash bins.

The man was an enforcer for the local syndicate. Ren could feel the faint, oppressive pressure of his D-rank aura even from ten yards away. It wasn't strong enough to make a normal person faint, but it felt like a heavy weight sitting on Ren's chest.

"You're late," the enforcer said, his voice cutting through the sound of the drizzling rain. He didn't even look up from his phone.

"The subway had a delay," Ren replied, his voice entirely flat. He had learned a long time ago that apologizing to high-ranks just made them angry.

The enforcer finally looked up, his eyes scanning Ren's black jumpsuit and the handles of the scrub brushes sticking out of his bag. A flash of casual contempt crossed his face before he slid his phone into his pocket.

"The cleanup is on the fourth floor. Room 402," the enforcer said, tossing a key card toward Ren's chest. Ren caught it clumsily against his bag. "Some local idiot thought he could skim from the boss's ledger. The mess is fresh. Don't leave a single trace of blood or residue, and make sure you incinerate the clothes. If the public cleaners find anything, it's your neck. Understand?"

"Understood," Ren muttered.

"Good. Get to work, E-rank." The enforcer turned, sliding into the back seat of the warm sedan, leaving Ren alone on the wet pavement.

Ren looked at the plastic key card in his hand, then up at the dark, silent windows of the concrete building. He let out a slow, steady breath to steel his nerves, stepped up to the door, and swiped the card. The heavy lock clicked open, revealing a pitch-black hallway that smelled intensely of copper and burning ozone.

His shift had officially started.

The stairwell was deathly quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic, rubbery squeak of Ren’s boots against the concrete steps as he climbed toward the fourth floor. The air grew thicker with every flight, the sharp smell of copper turning into something heavy and suffocating.

By the time he reached the fourth-floor landing, the scent of burning ozone was so strong it made his eyes water.

Ren stopped in front of Room 402. The heavy wooden door was slightly ajar, its frame splintered near the lock. He dropped his heavy duffel bag quietly onto the floor, unzipped it, and pulled out a pair of thick, latex gloves and a heavy-duty tactical flashlight. He clicked the light on, throwing a sharp beam of white light through the narrow gap.

"Hello?" Ren called out softly, his voice muffled by his filter mask. "Cleaning crew."

Silence answered him.

He pushed the door open with the toe of his boot. The flashlight beam swept across a ruined living room. The furniture had been completely ripped to shreds—an expensive leather sofa was torn in half, its stuffing scattered across the floor like dirty snow. The plaster walls were covered in deep, jagged gouges that looked like they had been carved by massive, invisible claws.

And then, the light hit the center of the room.

Ren froze. He had cleaned up dozens of crime scenes over the last few months, but his stomach still twisted into a tight knot. A man lay slumped against the base of a shattered glass coffee table. His clothes were shredded, and his chest was deeply caved in, covered in dark, viscous blood that had already pooled across the cheap linoleum floor.

But what caught Ren’s attention wasn't just the blood. Floating just inches above the corpse's chest was a strange, fractured light. It looked like a cracked glowing crystal, pulsing with a weak, erratic purple glow.

*A broken Soul Script,* Ren realized, his breath hitching.

When a high-ranking magic user died, their script usually dissipated within minutes, melting back into the world's natural energy. But this man must have been killed by an incredibly powerful, high-tier enforcer. The killer's aura had been so overwhelming that it had literally shattered the victim's script, leaving a volatile, corrupted residue behind.

Ren walked forward slowly, his boots avoiding the edge of the blood pool. He needed to get to work. The syndicate enforcer downstairs had been very clear—if a single trace of this mess was left by the time the public cleaners arrived, it would be his life on the line.

He knelt down beside the body, reaching into his duffel bag for a bottle of chemical neutralizing spray. But as he leaned over to grab his tools, his boot slipped slightly on a fragment of shattered glass.

Ren lunged forward to catch his balance, his gloved hand swinging out instinctively to steady himself.

His open palm smacked right into the hovering, fractured purple crystal.

Instantly, a violent, agonizing shockwave shot up Ren's arm. It didn't feel like an electric shock—it felt like a thousands of freezing needles were being forcibly jammed straight into his veins, rushing upward toward his chest.

Ren tried to pull his hand back, but his fingers were completely paralyzed, magnetically locked onto the glowing script.

"Ah... through...!" he tried to scream, but the sound caught in his throat.

Inside his chest, right where his own dormant, useless E-rank Soul Script resided, a deafening *CRACK* echoed through his skeleton. The agonizing pain spiked, blinding him as his vision went entirely white. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, and his lungs seized up completely.

Then, right at the absolute peak of the agony, the white void in his eyes suddenly shattered into a million pieces.

A sharp, digital chime rang out directly inside his skull. It was a cold, mechanical sound that completely cut through the ringing in his ears.

Slowly, line by line, glowing neon-blue text began to scroll rapidly across his field of vision.

[CRITICAL ERROR DETECTED]

[HOST SOUL SCRIPT: ANOMALOUS BREAKAGE IDENTIFIED]

[ALERT: EXTRANEOUS UNREFINED DATA FLOODING INTELLECTUAL GAUGES]

[COMMENCING EMERGENCY OVERRIDE PROTOCOL...]

[SYSTEM INITIALIZING: THE MONARCH GLITCH IS NOW ONLINE]

Ren fell backward onto the floor, his hand finally releasing the crystal. He gasping violently for air, clutching his chest as the icy feeling in his veins slowly began to melt away.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his sight, but the text didn't disappear. It hovered perfectly in front of him, tracking his eyes as he looked around the ruined room in absolute terror.

[Initialization Complete]

[Current Status Registered]

Name:** Ren

Level:** 1 (0 / 100 EXP)

Rank:** Glitch (Unranked)

Strength: 8

Agility: 9

Perception: 11

Error Code: 1

[DAILY QUEST GENERATED: THE FIRST CLEANSE]

Objective: Eliminate 100% of the corrupted biomass (blood/residue) in Room 402.

Time Remaining: 01:59:52

Penalty for Failure: Soul Script Deletion (Permanent Death)

Ren stared at the floating screens, his heart still pounding wildly against his ribs. He stretched his hands out in front of his face, watching the digital blue numbers flicker against his skin.

"What... what is this?" he whispered, his voice trembling under his mask.

He looked over at the corpse. The hovering purple crystal was completely gone, its energy entirely absorbed into his own chest.

The countdown timer on the blue screen began to tick down.

*01:59:51...*

*01:59:50...*

Ren didn't know what a "Glitch Monarch" was, and he didn't understand why his head was suddenly acting like a computer interface. But as he stared at the word

[Failure: Permanent Death]

His survival instincts, honed by months of working in the brutal underworld, kicked in.

He grabbed a bottle of bleach, his hands shaking as he twisted the cap off. System or no system, he had a floor to scrub.

He has to get to work or he dies