Chapter 107: Dear Diary: I Hate My Coworkers (Also, Humanity Is Screwed)
Karl began to read the message logs on the console. There were only two entries. The first, dated 4401, 09-30, and the second, a file titled letter C that had been spammed multiple times. Both were marked with a red flag. He hovered the cursor over the first one and tapped, and a warning window popped up.
[ This is a corrupted file log. Do you want to open it? ]
[ Yes ] [ No ]
"Of course, I want to open it," Karl muttered, and tapped yes. The file opened, and as he read, he realized it was a diary-like message.
Message Log Day – 441,
Richardian Age
Solar Year 4403
From: Janice Stevens
Dear Whoever’s Snooping,
It’s really unfortunate that my superior officer deleted all my logs. That sick bastard—always meddling in my business. Can’t a girl get a break? So fine, I’ll just summarize everything in one go, and maybe this fat bitch won’t delete it this time.
And if you’re reading this, you pig: DO NOT DELETE THIS.Just because Sir Miguel hates your fat ass and happens to like me doesn’t mean you get to dictate how I work. Delete this again and I’ll report you for shoving Sir Miguel’s pen into your pu**y.
Anyway. Back to the point. I’m just a lowly security staff here in this facility. Don’t ask me why Byte-Bio Corporation (a subsidiary of Bytebull, because of course they are) started hiring. I was just one of the lucky millions of jobless colonists on Rich Sans Gamma.
Or maybe it’s because of my "quirks." Life’s cruel—if you’re not beautiful or sexy enough, HR doesn’t give a damn. Going for an interview? Better dress like it’s Miss Universe. I mean literally.
As for that fat cow who somehow got this job—yeah, my bet is mommy and daddy’s pockets run deeper than a black hole. Credits talk.
My work? Staring at endless lists of visitors and entities, trying to flag rebels or rival corps. Tedious as hell, but I guess they hired me ’cause I know the stereotypes. And then there’s Sir Miguel... always making his little advances. I almost feel sorry for him. He’s just a floor manager, in charge of Floors 1–10. I’ve got bigger dreams than that. If I want execs to notice me, I need to stand out.
For a while, it was the same routine—until about a month ago. Suddenly everything felt like the Fourth of July. Busy. Chaotic. Even the fat bitch started working, and—get this—was actually nice to me. She gave me the dumbest job ever: close the main entrance every five days, reopen it on weekdays. Honestly, I didn’t mind. I figured it was because too many employees were skipping shifts after weeks without seeing real sunlight.
You gotta understand—life down here is weird. The deeper-floor workers basically live underground, only breathing real air on their days off. But hey, they get fat paychecks, their own modular homes, free food, clean water, safety from rebels and bandits. Families. Kids. Can you imagine? Kids with actual mothers. Meanwhile, on the surface? Orphans everywhere, turning merc or bandit just to survive.
Anyway. About two weeks later, I noticed familiar faces from deeper floors coming and going. Thomas told me they were being laid off. Which meant—big opportunity for the rest of us. Finally, a shot at promotion. Better salary. My own place. Life was looking up.
But then another week passed. More layoffs. More silence. Nobody told me why. Still, it was just a few thousand out of millions. Barely a drop. Sir Miguel even told me I’d get promoted to the deeper floors—security supervisor, no less. Fancy, right?
And that’s it. Character limit’s a bitch. So I’ll stop here.
Your lovely little
Janice Stevens
Karl muttered as he read it. "Nothing unusual there," he scoffed. "Toxic and she’s like one of my coworkers back on Earth, who suck up to my boss thinking she’s got that face and booty, but she’s skilled on her work as she claimed. she’s not that egotistical stereotypes who just want attention and control and desire to dominate others, instead she’s one of those practical woman, who just wanted to have a comfortable life. I’ve been there too."
He then moved his cursor onto the next message log titled "CCCCCCCCCCC".
"This sounds like something. Maybe a curse letter for her superior or something." He tapped it. As he read, his smile slowly vanished, replaced by a serious expression.
Message Log — [Corrupted File, Partial Recovery]
I don’t have much time. Something has gone very, very wrong.
Everyone is panicking. One of the overseers ordered me to seal the main entrance, but... I couldn’t. People were begging, screaming, clawing to get out. They said something happened on the deeper floors.
A black miasma. Rising. Spreading. Killing everyone it touches.
I only came here to survive, to make a living... but I’m not a monster. I couldn’t lock them in. I opened the gates. I let them out.
If you’re reading this, please—do not go down there. Stay away from the deeper floors. Whatever is below... it’s not meant to be—
[ FILE CORRUPTED. END OF ENTRY. ]
The message cut off abruptly. Karl felt a chill down his spine, but instead of fear, he felt a burning desire to find out what had actually happened. "Could the Underworld be connected? Are they the ones who wiped out the citizens?" he muttered. The message also looked like a human format of writing, and the date said 4403, solar year.
They seemed to be from the future. Karl exhaled, a lot of questions swirling in his mind. The answer was on the deeper floors. To even do that, he needed to be fully prepared. Who knows what was lurking. The message logs warned him of something dangerous. Karl was stuck with expanding his company outwards but was also tempted to go inward to explore and discover the mystery of the dungeon.
Meanwhile, on the 9th floor, Dullahan trained the remaining 19 soldiers from the expedition. The replacement squads had returned to their previous assignments. Though the soldiers were few, Karl had instructed Dullahan to train them in dark mana manipulation, leveraging Dullahan’s extensive expertise.
The training wasn’t just physical; it was a grueling test of will. Dullahan had the soldiers practicing controlled mana compression, correcting their concept and visualization and teaching them to stabilize the compression. He saw these undead as the foundation of a new kind of army, their dark mana a unique weapon.
As for Rook, he was training himself, sitting cross-legged behind a large tree. His focus was on refining his core and enhancing his control over dark mana. Internally, his core hummed with a low frequency, and he visualized the dark mana like a swirling vortex, slowly compressing it, filtering out impurities, and making the energy denser and more pliable.
Meanwhile, Schalezusk, was training his combat techniques. He felt the growing comfort of the dungeon—the delicious food, the soft bed, the safety—was a siren’s call. He thought about his alliance with Karl.
At the moment, he was entirely dependent on him, which felt unhealthy. He knew that true leadership came from forging one’s own path, not from riding on the coattails of another’s power.
He was not a pawn in Karl’s game; he was a leader in his own right. He practiced the ancient forms, his father taught him, focusing on powerful, broad strokes with his axe that could cleave an opponent in two, while also incorporating the subtle feints and quick parries he had observed in Karl’s skeleton soldiers. He was adapting, but his core identity as a warrior remained tied to his people.
He exhaled, staring at the artificial sunlight of the floor, his mind wandering. Then, a familiar voice called his name. He turned to see his small brother, Simon, escorted by a skeleton staff member in a suit and tie.
"Brother!" Simon shouted, running toward him.
"Oh, Simon, what brings you here?" Schalezusk asked.
"Brother! I finally have information on the others!" Simon said excitedly.
"What others?" Schalezusk asked, confused.
"Elder Skrall!" Simon said with a beaming smile.
Schalezusk’s eyes widened. "Wait, really?!"
Simon nodded. "Their tribe is located in the northeast."
He unrolled a parchment paper, showing a map. He marked a spot on the eastern edge of the map with an "X." "There!" Simon, with the help of the skeleton staff, had delved into the Necro Market’s database and cross-referenced old merchant logs and trade routes from the surface, as well as beastkin villager’s witnesses that hinted at the tribe’s location.
Schalezusk was relieved and felt a renewed sense of purpose. "Good job! Good job, Simon! We can finally reunite the orc tribes as one nation with this." He touched the amulet on his neck.
Simon’s expression became more serious. "But it’s not gonna be easy, brother. Although we have grandfather’s amulet, I don’t think Elder Skrall is just gonna hand over the leadership to us."
Schalezusk smirked. "I learned a thing or two from our ally, Simon. Don’t worry, I finally know how to bring out the amulet’s full power. It’s not just a symbol; it’s a key. Next time, that bastard Minur is gonna pay for what he did."
Schalezusk believed the amulet could not only prove his lineage but also amplify the ancestral strength of the orc chief, a latent power that could unite the tribes by force of will and heritage. He would use this to challenge Minur directly, not just in combat, but in a test of true leadership.
Simon smiled. "Then we’ll have to talk to Mr. Karl about it. As much as we want to stay here, we have to be the ones uniting the orc tribes. We are starting a nation, after all."
Schalezusk smiled back. "Yeah, that’s what I think, too. We’re getting too dependent and comfortable here. We might forget our true purpose."