The walk from the pristine streets of Downtown Londinium to the industrial slopes of the Rust Belt was agonizing.

  Michael walked with both hands resting heavily on the pommel of his cane. His face was set into the aristocratic mask of Count Mikhail, but internally, his mind was chaotic.

  He was currently walking behind Christopher.

  Okay, Michael’s internal monologue raced. Christopher is moving at roughly fifteen miles per hour. That must be what passes for a ‘Duelist Stride’ in this world. But I have a maxed out Agility stat. If I move at my fastest walking pace, I will literally break the sound barrier. The resulting sonic boom will shatter every window on this street and immediately blow my cover. I must... move... very... slowly. Heel to toe. Just like a fragile, ordinary human. Breathe in. Breathe out. Look slightly winded.

  Beside him, Lavius drifted silently. Her Hood of Concealment draped heavily over her head, hiding her face, but Michael could feel the suffocating waves of boredom radiating from the Succubus. To her, this slow, plodding march was an insult to their existence.

  "Fascinating," a raspy, uncomfortably close voice muttered.

  Michael stiffened, carefully turning his head.

  Blanche had dropped back from the front of the group and was now walking entirely too close to him. She was staring intently at his neck, her wide, unblinking eyes tracking the pulse—or rather, the complete lack of a pulse—beneath his pale skin.

  Oh god, Michael panicked. Did I hide my fangs? I definitely engaged Aura Suppression. Wait, did I? Is my jugular glowing? Why is she looking at me like I’m a science experiment?!

  "The lack of visible vascularity is truly remarkable, Count," Blanche whispered, pulling a small glass vial filled with a bubbling, neon green liquid from her leather apron. "It speaks to a severe circulatory deficiency. Or perhaps a rare marrow rot. You must be exhausted simply standing upright. Please, take this tonic. It will stimulate your red blood cell production."

  Michael forced a polite smile. "I assure you, madam, my constitution is quite robust. I require no tonics."

  Blanche didn't blink and slowly corked the vial and slipped it back into her apron. "We'll see."

  Michael shuddered, taking a deliberate step away from the creepy woman and looked desperately toward the front of the group, his eyes landing on Arthur.

  The massive man in the exoskeleton was the only thing keeping Michael sane right now. Arthur moved with perfection. Every step was perfectly measured. Every vent of steam was mathematically precise. To Michael’s janitor brain—a mind that craved order, cleanliness, and predictability in a chaotic world—Arthur’s mechanical perfection was incredibly soothing.

  As they walked deeper into the city, the environment began to shift drastically. The clean, gas lit avenues of the upper districts gave way to narrow, cobblestone streets slick with grease and rain. Towering brick smokestacks dominated the skyline.

  Michael noticed heavily armed men standing guard outside the gates of various factories. They wore variations of Arthur’s brass exoskeleton.

  Ah, Michael realized, Arthur isn't a unique freak of nature. "Steam Guard" must be a standard job class here, just like Arcanist or Duelist. Good to know.

  The deeper they went, the heavier the smog became. And as the yellow clouds finally eclipsed the sun entirely, Michael felt the 50% stat debuff lift from his shoulders.

  His mana pathways instantly flooded open and he was back to full power.

  Naturally, this only made him more paranoid. Now, if he tripped, he might accidentally level a city block.

  "Keep close, Soot Hands," Christopher called back over his shoulder. "The Rust Belt is heavily policed, but the alleys are full of desperate men. Do not stray."

  Michael looked around. The streets were indeed heavily patrolled.

  Marching in disciplined formations were squads of the local police—the Constabulary. They wore red coats with brass buttons, and they carried terrifying steam-powered Gatling guns slung over their shoulders. Beside the officers were Steam Golems and Clockwork Bloodhounds that sniffed the cobblestones for magical residue.

  Michael, a former cleaner who had spent years wiping up after corporate elites, felt an immediate, profound respect for the Redcoats. They represented the "Law." They maintained order and kept the streets clean of chaos.

  His respect, however, evaporated a moment later as they walked past the complexes owned by the Coal & Cog Syndicate.

  The factory yards were a nightmare of filth. Greedy, red-faced men in top hats screamed at soot-covered laborers dragging leaking carts of raw coal. The machinery squealed, dumping raw, toxic sludge directly into the street gutters.

  Michael’s eye twitched. His janitor instincts violently flared up. It was messy and inefficient. With a fraction of his magical knowledge, he could easily overthrow these corrupt CEOs, dismantle their primitive coal grid, and replace the entire city’s power structure with a clean, self-sustaining network.

  He gripped his cane so hard the silver knob groaned. No! Stop it, he corrected himself. Keep your head down. We are ordinary. We are not here to fix their infrastructure.

  "Here we are," Christopher announced, bringing the party to a halt in a alleyway tucked between two textile factories.

  Set into the greasy cobblestones was a sewer grate.

  "The haunting was reported in the primary subterranean aqueduct below here," Freya read quickly. "Anomalous temperature drops. Ectoplasmic residue on the brickwork. It’s a textbook spectral manifestation."

  Arthur stepped forward. With a hiss of venting steam, he drove his fingers into the grate and effortlessly ripped the iron disc from the street, tossing it aside.

  The smell that drifted up from the hole was atrocious.

  But what truly bothered Michael wasn't the smell; it was the physical state of the sewers. As he climbed down the ladder into the tunnels, his boots splashed into ankle deep sludge. The aqueduct was catastrophically backed up. Rusted pipes wept black water, and piles of rotting debris restricted the flow of the main channel.

  It offended him on a deeply personal and professional level.

  For an agonizing hour, Iron Maiden led Michael and Lavius through the dark labyrinth. Christopher complained incessantly about the sludge ruining the polish on his expensive leather boots. Freya muttered rapidly, tracing glowing blue runes in the air with her fingers to track the "ethereal density" of the tunnel.

  Finally, the temperature of the sewer plummeted, turning their breath into white clouds. The sludge beneath their feet began to freeze.

  "Contact," Christopher whispered, drawing his saber.

  Down the tunnel, the shadows coalesced. A glowing blue telekinetically suspended debris formed into a humanoid shape. Its eyes burned with a white light.

  [Poltergeist] - Level 10

  "Stand back, Soot Hands," Christopher commanded, throwing his arm out to shield Michael and Lavius. "Observe the geometry of combat. Try not to get yourselves killed."

  Michael and Lavius obediently stepped back, leaning against the brick wall.

  "Showtime," Christopher smirked.

  What followed was a wonderfully orchestrated, highly tactical, and profoundly dull ten minute fight.

  Michael used the opportunity to gather vital intelligence on how the combat classes of this world actually functioned. He watched closely as Iron Maiden, all Level 10 adventurers, engaged the spectral threat.

  Arthur moved first. The Ironclad slammed his shield into the frozen sludge and activated a skill. [Magnetic Anchor] The exoskeleton hissed, locking his boots to the floor and became an immovable wall, actively drawing the Poltergeist's telekinetic attacks away from the squishy casters behind him.

  Stolen story; please report.

  Freya stood safely behind Arthur, rapidly flipping through her grimoire. She chanted complex incantations, casting Tier 1 [Slow] and [Snare] traps on the ground, creating glowing nets that actively hindered the ghost's erratic movements.

  Blanche was chaotic support. She threw small glass vials over Arthur’s shoulders. When the vials shattered, they erupted into clouds of restorative mist, instantly healing the minor scrapes on Arthur’s armor and granting him a temporary speed buff.

  And then there was Christopher. The Duelist treated the sewer fight like a fencing match. He mathematically angled his enchanted saber, deflecting the ghost’s thrown debris with energy, before stepping in to deliver quick, precise, lunges to the entity's core.

  It was textbook party synergy. The tank held the aggro, the casters controlled the field and buffed the party, and the DPS chipped away at the health bar.

  It was also taking forever.

  The damage numbers floating above the Poltergeist's head were so low Michael almost felt bad for it. Beside him, Lavius was openly yawning, checking her nails, utterly bored by the display of human weakness.

  Finally, with a loud, dramatic shout, Christopher lunged forward. [Piercing Riposte] His saber flared with white light, stabbing directly into the center of the Poltergeist's chest.

  The ghost let out a shriek and violently dissipated into a shower of glowing blue mist.

  "And that," Christopher said, breathing heavily as he sheathed his sword with a flourish, "is how it is done. Flawless execution. Perfect geometry."

  Arthur vented a blast of steam and Freya excitedly scribbled notes into her grimoire, while Blanche crawled around the wet floor, trying to scoop up the residual ectoplasm into her little glass vials.

  "Most impressive," Michael lied, clapping his hands together in a slow rhythm. "A masterful display."

  "We make it look easy, Count," Christopher smirked, wiping a speck of dirt from his coat. "Come. Let us collect our bounty from the Lodge and scrub this filth from our boots."

  Iron Maiden turned and began the long trek back toward the exit ladder.

  Michael took a step to follow, but he paused and looked back down the tunnel. The ghost was gone, but the real nightmare remained. The sewer was still disgustingly clogged. The stagnant water, the rotting debris, the sheer inefficiency of the plumbing... it made his skin crawl.

  It was a biohazard. He couldn't just leave it like this.

  I'll just clean it up a bit, Michael reasoned internally. A minor cantrip. Nobody will notice.

  Thinking absolutely nothing of it, Michael tapped the knob of his cane against the floor. He mentally opened his Spell Repository and scrolled past the tsunamis and oceanic summons, selecting a low-level utility spell.

  Tier 3: Drown.

  A blue magic circle, intricate with geometric runes, expanded from the tip of his cane, instantly filling the entire diameter of the tunnel.

  "What the—?" Christopher shouted, turning around just as the circle flared.

  Millions of gallons of magically synthesized, crystal-clear water erupted from the runes.

  The water blasted perfectly down the tunnel as the pressure hit the sludge and scoured the brickwork, obliterating the rotting debris, and shattering the clogs blocking the aqueduct.

  The sound was deafening—an aquatic explosion that shook the very foundations of the Rust Belt above them.

  In a matter of seconds, the spell blasted through the entire subterranean network, flushing hundreds of tons of toxic sewage out of the city's plumbing and directly into the distant harbor.

  Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the magic circle vanished.

  The water rapidly receded down the now perfectly clear drains. The air in the tunnel suddenly smelled of fresh water and the brick walls were sparkling and clean.

  Michael lowered his cane, a profound sense of janitorial satisfaction washing over him. Much better.

  He turned around.

  The four members of Iron Maiden were frozen in place. Christopher’s jaw had literally dropped open. Freya had dropped her grimoire straight into a puddle. Blanche’s vials were clinking together as her hands shook uncontrollably. Even Arthur, the massive Ironclad, had taken a step back, venting a long, high-pitched whistle of steam that sounded suspiciously like terror.

  They were staring at Michael as if he had just parted the Red Sea.

  "You..." Christopher stammered, his snobbish vanity entirely shattered. His eyes darted from the miles-long tunnel back to the man leaning casually on a stick. "You... what did you just do?"

  "It was... miraculous," Freya breathed, falling to her knees and staring at the sparkling brickwork. "The mana density... the sheer volume! He cleared the entire city’s aqueduct grid with a single, unspoken incantation! He didn't even chant!"

  "Legendary," Blanche whispered, her creepy demeanor replaced by absolute awe. "Immense, terrifying power."

  Michael’s heart dropped into his stomach. The satisfaction vanished, replaced by unadulterated panic.

  Wait, Michael thought frantically. Was that not a normal spell? It was only Tier 3! It was a utility spell! I’m holding a junk stick! I have a 25% debuff on! What do you mean 'legendary'?!

  "It was merely a... a basic cleansing cantrip," Michael tried to deflect, his voice tight. "My House prides itself on hygiene."

  Nobody bought it. They looked at him like he was a god walking among mortals.

  "Let us... let us depart," Christopher said weakly, suddenly treating Michael with the kind of reverence usually reserved for royalty. "Right this way, Lord Mikhail. Please. Watch your step."

  The climb back up the ladder was agonizingly silent. Michael felt sick. He had just exposed his massive mana pool to four seasoned hunters. He was done for. His cover was blown.

  When Arthur pushed the grate open and they climbed back up to the street level of the Rust Belt, Michael’s worst fears were immediately confirmed.

  Waiting for them in the smoggy, cobblestone street was a massive blockade of the Constabulary.

  Dozens of Red-coated police officers had the alleyway completely surrounded. Three massive Steam Golems stood like brass titans at the ends of the street, their Gatling guns whirring loudly. The mechanical Bloodhounds were barking wildly, their gears clicking in a frenzy.

  Michael froze, his hands tightening on his cane.

  This is it, he thought, his internal monologue dissolving into pure panic. They felt the mana spike. I’m under arrest for unauthorized use of city-destroying magic. They’re going to execute me. I’m going to have to fight the police. If I fight the police, the Church will come. If the Church comes, the Navy will shell my castle!

  In his terror-induced paranoia, Michael actually hallucinated. Standing in the back of the police blockade, he swore he saw Blackworth, the mustachioed hunter, twirling his facial hair and pointing a damning finger directly at him.

  A tall, broad-shouldered man in a heavily decorated Redcoat stepped forward from the blockade. He had a thick grey beard.

  "I am Captain Ernest of the Constabulary," the man barked. He looked at Iron Maiden, then locked eyes directly with Michael.

  Michael braced himself for the arrest warrant while preparing to tell Lavius to kill everyone.

  Instead, Captain Ernest brought his boots together... and offered a deeply respectful salute.

  "To the man holding the silver cane," Captain Ernest shouted. "The Constabulary of Londinium thanks you!"

  Instantly, the dozens of police officers surrounding the alleyway erupted into deafening cheers. The Steam Golems raised their arms in victory.

  Michael blinked, entirely derailed. "Excuse me?"

  Captain Ernest marched forward, a massive, relieved grin breaking through his stern demeanor. He grabbed Michael’s hand and shook it vigorously.

  "You have done this city a service that cannot be measured in gold, sir!" Captain Ernest boomed. "Those sewers have been catastrophically clogged for years! The buildup of toxic sludge was causing a lethal magical miasma to seep into the factory floors, sickening thousands of laborers!"

  "I... see," Michael stammered, bewildered. "Why did you not clear it yourselves?"

  Captain Ernest spat on the ground in disgust. "The bloated aristocrats of the Royal Society refused the contract! Those high-ranking cowards deemed plumbing work 'beneath their prestige.' They let our people choke on the smog! But you... our scanners detected a massive, purifying tidal wave originate from this sector. You scoured the grid clean!"

  The Captain hailed him as a savior of public health.

  "I am merely a humble traveler," Michael tried to downplay, desperately trying to shrink back into the shadows. "I am not even a documented citizen of this city."

  "Nonsense!" Captain Ernest roared, clapping a hand on Michael’s shoulder. "A man who saves the Rust Belt from the miasma is a brother to the Constabulary! I will personally march to the Mayor’s office tonight. You will have your citizenship papers expedited and hand delivered to your estate by the end of the week, Count!"

  Christopher, suddenly realizing the immense political capital of standing next to a living legend, puffed out his chest and stepped forward.

  "Indeed, Captain!" Christopher proclaimed loudly to the crowd. "And as his party leader, I assure you, Iron Maiden will be alerting the Royal Society of Hunters immediately! Count Mikhail’s feat today will undoubtedly see him promoted at least two ranks!"

  The crowd of soot covered factory workers, who had gathered behind the police blockade, surged forward. They had heard the commotion and knew the miasma was gone.

  "Mikhail! Mikhail! Mikhail!" the crowd began to chant, the noise deafening in the narrow alleyway.

  Before Michael could protest, half a dozen burly, soot stained factory workers and grinning policemen rushed him. They grabbed his legs and hoisted him up into the air, intending to carry their new hero down the street on their shoulders.

  However, they immediately encountered a problem.

  Michael, possessing the maxed-out physical stats of a Vampire Lord, weighed a hyper dense, mathematically impossible two hundred and fifty pounds.

  "Oof!" one of the policemen groaned, his knees violently buckling as he took Michael's weight.

  "Heavens above, the Count is dense!" a factory worker grunted, his face turning purple with strain as he desperately tried to keep Michael aloft.

  Bouncing awkwardly on the shoulders of the straining, groaning men, Michael looked down at the street.

  Lavius was standing near the alley wall, vibrating with a terrifying, barely contained homicidal rage. The human contact, the noise, and the sheer audacity of the mortals touching her Master was pushing the Succubus to the absolute brink of a killing spree.

  Michael stared blankly up at the thick, yellow smog covering the sky, listening to the crowd chant his fake name as they painfully hauled his heavy, undead body down the street.

  What have I done? Michael thought miserably, closing his eyes. I just wanted to fly under the radar!