Chapter3

When I walked up the stairs to the east wing, the entire floor had been transformed into a blood-red slaughterhouse.

The S-class heroes lay sprawled on the floor, each pinned down by their own blood—the Blood Count had used their blood to form chains, pinning them to the ground. Ares was impaled in his limbs and abdomen by five spears of blood; even with his powerful abilities, he couldn't move. He lay on the ground, his face pressed against his own blood, his lips moving as if he were cursing something.

Gwen was suspended from the ceiling by chains of blood, her arms outstretched, her toes two meters off the ground. Her blood flowed backward from the wounds on her wrists and ankles, pooling in the air and joining the Blood Earl's throne. The blood continued to flow—slowly, steadily, at a controlled rate, just enough to keep her conscious.

She saw me.

Her lips were pale from blood loss, and a flicker of surprise crossed her eyes, followed by panic. She opened her mouth, her voice weak as if torn paper:

"Marcus... what are you doing... hurry! Get out of here!"

I was just standing at the entrance to the corridor, mop in hand, looking down at the pool of blood on the floor that stretched to my feet. The blood had congealed, its surface gleaming a dark red, like a shattered mirror.

The Blood Earl sat on his throne, his smile shifting from curiosity to amusement. He tilted his head to look at me, as if I were a mouse that had stumbled into a trap.

"Oh? There's still one who hasn't fallen?"

He snapped his fingers, wanting the blood inside me to tear me apart.

Nothing happened.

He paused for a second, then tried again.

Nothing happened.

The Blood Earl's expression turned amused. He stood up and stepped down from the throne, the blood beneath his feet congealing into steps with each step. He walked to me, less than three meters away, and looked down at the mop in my hand.

What is your special ability?

"clean."

He laughed, laughed heartily, laughed so hard he bent over, laughed until tears streamed down his face.

"Cleaning? Hahahaha! Cleaning!"

"Are you here to mop the floor?"

Other sounds rang out in the hall; among the S-class heroes pinned to the ground by chains of blood, some were laughing.

Not everyone—Ares didn't laugh; he couldn't laugh, he could barely breathe. But some people were laughing.

The twelfth-ranked "Flash" Jack Sparrow laughed the loudest. Half his body was pinned to the ground by a plate of congealed blood, three of his ribs broken, but he was still laughing: "Marcus? That floor-sweeping loser? What's he doing here? Collecting our corpses?"

Erica, the "Ice Queen" ranked fifteenth, also laughed. Her laughter was soft, like mocking an ill-timed joke: "The association sent cleaners to rescue us? That's the funniest thing this year."

"Soundwave" Carl, ranked ninth, didn't laugh, but his eyes were full of sarcasm. His throat was bound by chains of blood, rendering him speechless, but the way he looked at me seemed to say: You think you're worthy to stand here?

Gwen struggled against the ceiling, her voice trembling from blood loss:

"Stop laughing! What time is it! Marcus, you should leave! This isn't a place for you!"

Count Blood turned his head, looked at Gwen, and his smile deepened.

"Oh? You're worried about him?"

"An S-class hero is worried about a janitor?"

He walked back to the throne, sat down, and crossed his legs like a circus spectator.

"Then I won't kill him."

"I want him alive. I want him to clean up all the blood in the hall, then kneel at my feet and hand me the mop."

He pointed to the pool of blood on the ground, then pointed to me.

"This is the perfect role for a useless character."

Jack laughed again: "Yes, let him mop the floor. That's what he's supposed to do."

Erica laughed too: "Marcus, remember to mop it up properly. After all, that's the only thing you're good at."

Carl didn't speak, but a sarcastic smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

I stood there, looking down at the blood at my feet.

Ten years have passed.

I knew it ten years ago when Thomson threw my application in the trash. These people never treated me like a human being. They looked at me like a mop, a rag, a tool.

For the past ten years, every time Gwen returned from a mission, she would deliberately step on the floor I had just mopped.

"I'll find you something to do so you don't just get paid for nothing."

For ten years, Ares has walked past me without ever looking down. In his eyes, I'm probably no different from a fire hydrant on the wall—just part of the building, not worth paying attention to.

For ten years, these S-class heroes have talked to me about battles, rankings, and honors, but no one has ever asked me, "Marcus, do you want to fight?"

Because in their eyes, I don't deserve it.

Now they lie on the ground, pinned down by their own blood, unable to move.

They're still laughing now.

Laugh at a useless person standing there.

Gwen struggled against the ceiling, her voice growing weaker: "Marcus...go quickly..."

Something in her eyes changed.

That seems to be... guilt?

She regretted it.

But what is she regretting?

I don't know.

But she kept telling me to leave.

Was it because she didn't want to see me die?

The Blood Count stood up and walked towards me. A ball of deep red blood was gathering in his palm. He was going to shove the blood ball into my mouth, letting my own blood burst through my throat.

"Cleaner, your work is about to begin."

"But before that, I want you to understand one thing."

His smile turned cruel.

"In this world, those who are useless should be aware of their own worthlessness."

I looked up at him, then wrung out the mop.

I pressed the mop into the pool of blood on the ground.

Gwen screamed from the ceiling, "No! Marcus! Run!"

Jack laughed on the floor, "He's going to mop the floor! He's really going to mop the floor!"

Erica laughed too: "A piece of trash will always be trash, even in death."

I didn't look at them.

I just looked down at the pool of blood.