The sirens wailed like tired ghosts outside the crumbling tenement.
Yggy sat at the kitchen table, sorting coins—most of them copper, a few silver—by a flickering fluorescent light.
His fingers moved with the precision of someone used to counting down to zero.
The dim glow caught the edge of his silver hair, unkempt but clean, hanging in front of eyes too sharp for someone his age. His build was lean, every inch of him molded not for strength—but speed, survival. His jacket hung loose on his wiry frame, patched at the elbows, threadbare at the cuffs.
His hands paused just long enough to rub his thumb against the last silver coin.
A small hand, hesitant and cold, tugged on the frayed sleeve of his jacket. "Big Brother," Mina whispered, her voice barely a rustle of sound.
Yggy turned. Her face, usually bright, was a pale, drawn canvas in the flickering candlelight, her lips chapped and colorless.
"Grandma coughed again." She paused, swallowing hard as if the words themselves were sharp. "This time... there was blood."
Yggy stood without a word. Every second wasted was another second she lost.
The hospital bill was two weeks overdue. The medicine, the real kind, those Tower-grown pill priced like diamonds. And his next porter run? Scheduled for three days from now.
Too late.
He forced his face into a mask of calm, gently touching Mina's hair. "Don't worry. I'll figure something out." His voice sounded hollow to his own ears. "For now, give Grandma the other half of the tablet we sliced."
He watched as Mina's small form scurried to a cheap plastic box on the shelf. The lonely rattle of a single half-pill was the loudest sound in the room. She took it, her expression a fragile mix of trust and fear, and disappeared back into their grandmother's room.
The moment she was gone, the mask shattered. Yggy sank back into his chair, the single word echoing in the void of his mind. Blood. Tomorrow, the medicine is no more. The day after, that food.
He looked down at his shaking hands.
His gaze flickered to the stray copper coin on the table. Without conscious thought, it obeyed. The coin leaped into the air, spinning on its edge, a silent, glittering whirlwind dancing in the dim, desperate light trying to entertain him.
Telekinesis.
The ability was a birthright, a gift from the Aether that was supposed to be his family's salvation. It was as natural to him as breathing. He didn't need to concentrate, to strain, to "breathe right" like the others.
It might have been impressive, once.
But the Tower had changed everything. Its arrival hadn't just pierced the sky; it had bled Aether into the very air, birthing a new kind of human. Us. The Aether-born. Anyone who drew their first breath in the Tower's shadow had the energy saturate their bones, rewriting their genetic code, granting them the potential to manifest an ability.
Now every scrub who learned to "breathe right" can float a spoon with their aether energy.
To the world, a floating spoon was a floating spoon. His profound control was just a more polished version of the same cheap trick.
With a sigh that carried the weight of overlapping problems and faded hopes, Yggy reached into the worn inner pocket of his jacket. His fingers brushed against the smooth, familiar cover of a small, blank notebook. Hoping for something,
Storage another of my ability he muttered
Could've been a jackpot, would have climbed the wealth ladder if it was dimensional.
No trace. No weight. No physical medium.
But mine?
Same as the rest.
We need containers—boxes, bags, anything physical to store it.
Me? I use a blank notebook.
One page, one item.
Touch it, channel Aether, seal it into the sheet.
A simple, pathetic process.
This was all the Aether Awakening had given him.
My stats?
Above average.
My efficiency? Unmatched.
Sounds neat, right?
And yet…
People like me with storage ability, we're not treated as infiltrators or hunters
Instead They slapped us with a rank:
F.
F means:
Forget about fighting.
Forget about guilds.
Forget about leveling up.
We are labeled as Porters.
Convenient. Replaceable.
Meant to carry, survive and bring home the bounty.
After every floor raid, So my notebook?
Surrendered. Scanned. Our body Stripped bare full-spectrum analyzed, deep-layer. Nothing gets past them. And if they find a single unsanctioned item?
You're done.
Everything inside a tower—gear, gold, relics—is property of the Guild or the Bureau.
Corporation-enforced. No exceptions.
You comply… or disappear.
Even if I managed to smuggle something, the loot would manifest during Audit then
Seized. Labeled. Claimed.
And after all that… they kept calling us
Because no matter what they said
We are needed.
Because while they fought tooth and nail, bleeding for inches…
I was behind them, slipping through shadows, looting the best gear off boss corpses and empty vaults. Harvesting resources No kills. No EXP. No level-ups.
Just treasure storing and gathering what the floor has to offer and me im one of the best telekenis with storage ability, with a look using telekinesis as it goes flying straight to my notebook, and most of all im only of those storage ability guys who has this combination
Autoloot they call on RPG but here in reality there is no RPG for us
That's why they called me The Ultimate Looter.
Not because I was strong.
But because I never missed.
Because I always came back with something.
And because I was too damn cheap to die.
While they stood on stages, climbing the wealth ranking with crowns of laurel on their heads and flowers at their feet, I was in the backroom of the tower's security checkpoint—stripped, scanned, shamed, manifesting a sword worth millions from my storage notebook only to be sold in their names and gain profit by the corporate who hired them while for us no fanfare. No applause. Just the silent and a salary enough for a roof over our heads. Enough to eat once a day—twice, if we were lucky.
But those in charge always find a way to take it all back, increasing the prices of medicine and commodities and slapping on dues for the 'privilege' of being sheltered by the Tower from the dangers of the scourge.
They gave with one hand and crushed you with the other.
His gaze drifted across the cluttered table, snagging on a discarded newspaper.
Golden fonts and red highlights, loud and celebratory, framed a name newly added to the wealth ranking at number 12: John Cleeves (New).
Yggy picked up the rough sheet. The main headline screamed the man's victory: "Administrator John Cleeves of Cleaver Guild 12:12." Beneath it, a sub-headline hammered the point home: "John Cleeves joining as the administrator as the 12th S-rank as he conquered Tower Number 12."
A long, slow breath escaped his chest,
"Another tower owner," he muttered, the words a sour taste in his mouth. His grip tightened on the paper, "...more people will flock here." More mouths to feed, more bodies to fight over the same scraps.
Tok. Tok.
A knock cracked through the silence like a gunshot.
Yggy flinched, eyes still fixed on the newspaper being celebrated like gods.
Before he could react—
"Yggy Medas?"
A sharp voice—cool, precise, and commanding—cut through the hallway's stillness.
Yggy blinked. He turned slowly toward the door, heart skipping a beat. His body tensed, instincts flaring.
He approached the peephole.
One look—and his pulse spiked.
Three figures stood outside, dressed in sleek black tuxedos, trimmed with thick black fur over their shoulders like noble predators. Polished shoes. Gloves. No names. No smiles. Just presence.
These are the jackals? Yggy mind deciphering it fast
Behind them, seven more figures lined the hallway.
No words. No gestures. Just standing there like they are blocking every path of escape, reeking of ranked power and unfiltered bloodlust.
A full ten-man squad
He stared at the door handle, still trembling from earlier. Then open the door
Then it came again the calling
Yggy Medas? Right as the man with posturing aura call his came
The lead man stepped forward, hand resting casually on the hilt of a crimson-bladed sword.
"Name's Garret Cain," he said, smirking. "We're the Jackals."
Yggy froze. He'd heard of them—everyone had. They were the unofficial rulers of the Western Corridor. Their kill count rivaled that of licensed Corporate Guilds. But more than that, they were feared.
Garret Cain, the Crimson Reaper—Rank A. Known for carving up the Last year 90th floor manager Ogres Magi with a grin.
Beside him stood:
Trixie Vale, Rank A — twin daggers, faster than sight. The woman who killed the 70th floor Manager Scyther Mantis two months ago.
Marlo Dren, Rank B — shield-bearer the tank who killed a floor mobs alone in 12th floor on the recent tower reset
Vince "Scope" Harker, Rank B — sniper-rogue, known for one shot multiple kill
Dela Cruz, Rank B — support-type with the buff of death
Five more behind them, all Rank C: the rookies, the muscle, the distractions.
Names? Irrelevant. They wouldn't last long anyway.
"We're interested in inviting you as our porter," Garret said, voice smooth, head slightly tilted like he was offering a gift wrapped in razor wire. "One job. Big payout. In and out. You together with the C rank Boys get half of the loot while everybody gets an equal split of what is left."
Yggy didn't blink. His fingers twitched near the notebook at his waist.
"Why me? And why now?"
His voice was flat.
Cold.
"Three days from now the tower will reset, basically there is nothing to take unless you want steal from retreating citizen"
Garret didn't flinch. Just smiled.
"This isn't a floor raid or a tower raid here in tower 62," he said calmly. "The main guild has given clearance to us, so this raid is not in the books. No post-run scanning, just take whatever you want to take and all yours a scavenger run"
Yggy's brow tightened.
Black raid on the tower classified as red, the dangerous one the un-habitted one, only those who are criminals and lowest of human stays on its shield
Garret leaned in slightly.
"We need someone who is familiar with it, been there and seen it all. Someone who has experience in doing this runs
He paused to let that sink in.
"You've done this before. We know your dealings, Medas."
That last line was sharper than the rest.
Not a guess.
Not a bluff.
A fact.
Yggy's jaw clenched as the question hit the back of his skull like a hammer:
They know?
How much?
What else?
The silence dragged for a breath too long.
Outside the room, the rest of the members stood still, like statues carved out of danger.
This wasn't a request.
It was a trigger waiting for a pull.
Trixie purred as she stepped forward, heels clicking softly on the apartment floor. Her voice dripped honey, but her eyes were all fang.
"And we heard your granny's not doing so well."
She smiled.
"Real shame… if she missed her meds again."
The words struck deeper than a blade. They know how I accepted those deals Yggy didn't answer—but his fingers curled into fists at his side.
Another stepped forward—Marlo, broad-shouldered, all jawline and muscle under that black tuxedo. His voice was calm, deep, laced with lazy menace.
"So, what's it gonna be?" he asked.
"We call the Bureau? Or do we do this?"
The threat was wrapped in a velvet tone. Yggy clenched his jaw. His ability to store items in a medium just by looking but it made him valuable on scavenger runs.
"What tower?" he asked quietly.
Garret grinned.
"Tower 27. Floor 100. The Treasure Room."
Yggy's blood turned cold.
I've done my share of scavenger runs in Tower 27.
Raided every floor... except one.
Why not?
Just an open gate and a list of names.
You apply... you get in. That's simple.
Legal or not... dirty or clean... didn't matter.
If it paid, I took it. Tower 27 always paid.
I've known this since I started my first run. Its walls. Its secrets. Its patterns.
They're not new to me.
But there's one thing I've never touched.
Floor 100.
The boss room.
The one they all whisper about behind closed doors.
The one they call...
The Death Sentence Floor.
That floor was infamous.
The boss there... had never been killed.
Every failed raid only made it worse.
And whenever a tower break happens, the monster on the tower wreaks havoc on the outside of the tower. who cares as long as it won't spill beyond the gate of other towers...
...or cause havoc across the Country.
They say every death fed the thing.
Every fallen team... made it stronger.Smarter. Hungrier.
It wasn't supposed to be like that.
But somehow...
It became a calamity.
Very few ever made it back.
The ones who did?
Shaken. Scarred. Half-mad.
They spoke of the boss in whispers—a demon pig, bloated and layered in sickly folds of flesh, a grotesque monster wielding a rake forged from bone and gold.
The room promised riches beyond comprehension.
Blood Crystals.relics, legendary weapons, resources and anything that can be looted
Enough to put you at number two on the global wealth ranking overnight.
But those same survivors said they only escaped for one reason.
Because they offered—
Sacrifice.
Garret stepped forward and placed a firm hand on Yggy's shoulder.
"We wouldn't be recruiting you if it were easy," he said, voice low and confident.
"But imagine the wealth."
He snapped his fingers.
A lean man in the back stepped forward. Garret gestured toward him.
"Vince."
Vince nodded and handed over a small black card. Sleek. Metallic edge. No logo. No name.
A money card.
Not just any card—one of those, the kind only high-tier operatives or syndicate backers carried.
Garret held it out.
"Signing bonus," he said simply, pressing it into Yggy's palm.
"That should cover six months' worth of meds, food, rent... everything your grandma and your siblings need."
The weight of the card felt heavier than it should have.
Yggy's fingers closed around it slowly. In the back of his mind says one thing
"It's a Trap… you promised last time that would be the last on this scavenger run as he remembered his bruised body, mina worried face and his grandma teary eyes, His life for a meager change?"
But he didn't mind the inner thought, but reacted to the physical thing. He could feel.
Real funds. Real power in his hands
His mind reeled—Six months of peace. Six months without struggling.
And if the job paid out…
Half share to be split among six of us.
That much loot from Tower 27 could buy a proper hospital.
A full relocation pass to a gated zone or even a residential one on one of the tower floors owned by an administrator.
A life.
His jaw tightened. His grip around the card firmed.
He nodded—once, slowly.
"I'm in."