The first thing Jack did when he woke up was test the lie. He was in the orphanage gym, a sad, rust-stained room with a single, battered weight bench. He gripped the cold iron bar, the one he had struggled to lift just two days ago. But now, it felt different. Lighter. He lifted it with a smooth, controlled motion that felt utterly alien to his own body. It was not his strength. It was the ghost of a dead boy, a final, unwilling donation. The +1 Strength was a subtle, but tangible, proof of concept. The factory worked.
But every factory produces waste. A new notification, glowing with the same cautionary orange as before, pulsed in his vision.
[Warning: Dungeon Saturation at 28%. Breach occurs at 100%. Estimated time until Dungeon Break at current rate: 68 hours.]
The number had ticked down. The pressure was building. He had succeeded in his first harvest, but the act of killing had poured fuel on a fire he now had to control. A Dungeon Break would not only expose his secret location, but it would unleash empowered monsters onto the orphanage grounds, bringing the full, analytical wrath of the Hunter Bureau down on this entire sector. It was an unacceptable outcome. Therefore, he had to find a way to vent the pressure.
The solution was obvious, elegant in its cruelty. Saturation was generated by combat and death. But it was also vented, albeit slowly, by a successful clear. He didn't need to stop the killing. He just needed to balance the books. He needed more bodies. He needed a steady stream of low-level tenants to go in, kill a few monsters, and die, constantly churning the saturation level without letting it reach the breaking point.
He needed a disposal system for the state's disposable assets.
His opportunity came during the midday meal. He positioned himself near a table of proctors, his head down, appearing to be engrossed in his bowl of grey stew. Their voices were low, but his Perception, now a point higher than a normal human's, picked up every word.
"...the assignments for the low-scorers are a mess," the concrete-jawed proctor grumbled. "We don't have enough cleanup squads for the southern sewer system. We'll have to form a new provisional unit from the dregs of this draft."
"It's a death sentence," Sarah replied, her voice flat. "The infestation rate down there is higher than reported."
"They're state assets. They're meant to be used. Better they die serving a purpose than running away."
Jack processed the information. A new, high-fatality assignment was coming for the weakest orphans. The very same group he had targeted before was about to be put under even more pressure. Their desperation was about to become a quantifiable resource.
He spent the rest of the afternoon as a phantom, a whisper in the hallways. He found a boy who had scored a pathetic 25 and was trembling with fear. "I heard some of the high-scorers talking," Jack lied, his voice laced with false sympathy. "They said the sewer cleanup is basically a suicide mission. But they also said if you can show some independent initiative, some proof you've been grinding on your own... they might re-evaluate your placement."
He moved to another group. "That culvert dungeon everyone's talking about? The one Aaron and his friends found? I heard the Bureau is going to claim it in a few days. It's our last chance to get some easy loot and XP before it becomes a restricted zone."
He planted seeds of fear and greed. He offered a single, elegant solution: the unregistered dungeon. His dungeon. The one with the F-rank swords. He was not giving an order. He was creating an environment where walking into his slaughterhouse felt like their only logical choice.
His work was interrupted during dinner. He was sitting with Mike, performing the act of eating, when Sarah stopped at their table. She didn't look at Mike. Her eyes were locked on Jack.
"Vernon," she said, her tone casual, but her gaze was not. "I was reviewing the assessment data. Your efficiency rating is an anomaly. Luck bends for you too neatly. I don't trust neat patterns."
Jack looked up, his face a perfect picture of confused innocence. "I... I don't know what you mean, ma'am."
"No," she said, a thin, knowing smile on her face. "I don't suppose you do." She walked away without another word.
He felt a cold prickle on his skin. She was no longer just suspicious. She was hunting. Her intuition was a threat that his logic couldn't easily counter. He would have to be flawless.
That night, he lay in his bed, the world outside his window dark and silent. He opened the dungeon interface. For hours, it remained dormant. He waited with the patience of a spider. Then, finally, they appeared. Two new green dots flickered to life at the entrance. The desperate had taken the bait.
The factory was live again. He watched the notifications begin to trickle in.
[Tenant has slain Giant Rat. +0.1 XP acquired through Experience Tithe.]
[Dungeon Saturation has decreased by 0.5%.]
A successful kill. A small release of pressure. The system was working. But then, a scream, even fainter than before, a ghost in the machine.
[Tenant has died. Essence Absorbed: +1 Agility.]
[Dungeon Saturation has increased by 5%.]
The death added far more pressure than the kill had vented. It was a dangerous economy. A fine line to walk. The surviving tenant, his health bar critical, managed to escape, clutching a single, randomly generated F-rank sword. Jack watched the green dot flee the schematic.
This outcome was also acceptable. The survivor would not be silent. He would be terrified, but he would also be proof. Proof that the dungeon was dangerous, but that it held real rewards. He was an advertisement.
Jack analyzed the numbers. The ebb and flow of saturation. The cost and benefit of each life. He was no longer just a predator. He was a manager.
Every factory produces waste, he thought, feeling the new point of Agility hum in his nerves. Saturation is waste. All I need is a better disposal system.
He closed the interface, his mind already working on the next phase. He needed more tenants, a steadier stream. He needed to refine the balance, to make the farm more efficient. As he began to drift off, a new thought, cold and sharp, cut through his mind.
This was inefficient. Relying on rumors and the desperation of a few runaways was slow and unpredictable. To truly scale his operation, he needed to control a steady, reliable flow of livestock. And the State Asset Protocol was about to give him exactly that. The upcoming mandatory assignments weren't a cage. They were a delivery system.
His final, chilling thought was not about freedom. It was about logistics.
The government is about to assign me to a guild, he realized. I need to make sure it's the right one. I need to be assigned to the guild with the most expendable, low-ranking assets. I need to become the shepherd inside the state's own slaughterhouse.