I Siphon the Dead to Become the Strongest

We didn’t so much leap out of the gate as we catapulted ourselves through the last few goblins in a tangle of limbs, panic, and primal fear. The transition from the gate’s dank, oppressive atmosphere to the cool, blessedly unscented night air was so abrupt it felt like plunging into a cold, clean lake.

We stumbled, skidded on the gravel, and landed in a heap just outside the shimmering, opaque barrier of the gate entrance. We were free. We were unbombarded.

A City Guard stationed nearby, a man in neat blue armor who had probably been enjoying a quiet, poop-free evening, jumped a full foot in the air.

”What the—?!” he yelped, his hand flying to his sword hilt. He took in our disheveled state, our wild eyes, the faint, lingering... sewer scent. ”What are you two doing? You look like you’ve been through a... a...”

”A violation,” I wheezed from the ground, patting my chest to make sure no foreign brown substances had adhered to me. ”A smelly, smelly violation.”

Just then, another figure approached the gate. A young man, probably no older than nineteen, decked out in brand-new, slightly-too-shiny leather armor. He carried a sword that looked like it had never been drawn and a shield polished to a mirror sheen. An E-Ranker, fresh off the assembly line.

He looked down at Lindis and me, still sprawled on the ground, and his lip curled into a smirk. He puffed out his chest.

”Hah! What’s with these two?” he announced loudly, to anyone who would listen—which was basically the confused guard and us. ”Pathetic. This is my debut! Today marks the rise of a new star! I’ll cleave my way from E to D in a single delve! My name will echo through Korea... no, the WHOLE WORLD! They will know me as—”

His heroic proclamation was cut off by a sound.

It was a wet, aggressive SPLAT-SPLORT-SPLAT!

A barrage of brown, glistening projectiles shot out from the gate entrance like a foul, organic machine gun. They caught the aspiring world-hero perfectly as he was halfway through his grand pose, one foot already stepping toward the gate’s threshold.

SPLAT on the chest plate. SPLORT across the shiny shield. A direct, bullseye hit... SMACK... right across his open, shouting mouth.

The world-hero froze. The taste of his own destiny, apparently, was grimly organic. He blinked, the reality of dungeon delving dawning on him in the most visceral way possible.

Then he made a sound. A wet, gagging ”Gluuuurk!”

He didn’t charge forward. He didn’t draw his sword. He spun on his heel, dropped his now-soiled shield with a clatter, and sprinted back toward the bus stop, making frantic, spitting motions and wiping his face with his cloak, a high-pitched whine of utter despair trailing behind him.

I watched him go, my own stomach doing a slow, uncomfortable roll. ”I... I think some got in his mouth,” I gagged, looking away. ”That’s it. I’m never eating meat again. Or vegetables. Or anything that could possibly, even metaphorically, resemble that.”

Beside me, the City Guard finally lost his composure. He turned away, his shoulders shaking, before stumbling a few feet to the side and violently, projectilely vomiting into a nearby bush. The sounds of his retching mixed with the distant, fading shrieks of the deflated world-hero.

Lindis picked herself up, brushing dirt—clean, beautiful, poop-free dirt—off her pants. She looked at the guard, at the gate, then at me.

”Well,” she said, her voice unnaturally bright. ”That was... informative.”

”It was a sermon,” I corrected, finally standing on wobbly legs. ”A sermon on humility. And digestion. And the importance of not standing with your mouth open near a goblin gate.”

The guard, wiping his mouth, gave us a pale, traumatized look. ”You two... are you done?”

”More done than that guy’s career,” I muttered.

...

The scent of cheap detergent and home hit me the moment I opened the apartment door. It was a beautiful, poop-free perfume.

A shadow detached itself from the couch and lunged at me. It was a small, ferocious shadow that moved with the speed and single-minded purpose of a starving piranha.

THUMP-WHUMP.

Before I could process, my sister Mia had slammed into me, her arms wrapped around my waist in a vise-grip that rivaled my stolen [Three Times Grip Strength]. Her head was buried in my chest.

“Waaah! Oppa, why are you so late?!” she wailed, her voice muffled by my jacket. She pulled back, glaring up at me with tear-filled eyes, her face a perfect picture of melodramatic teenaged starvation. She gestured toward a pile of textbooks on the low table. “I’m so hungry! My brain is mush! I can’t think of any answers for my Literature assignment! I think I’m gonna die! This is child neglect!”

I blinked down at her, the adrenaline from the gate finally draining away. “Okay, okay. Breathe. I come bearing tribute.”

With the gravitas of a king presenting a holy relic, I raised the large plastic bag I’d been carrying.

“Witness: Two servings of spicy tteokbokki, extra fish cakes. A family-sized box of crispy fried chicken. Four cheese-stuffed mandu. And a one-liter bottle of banana milk—because you’re a child.”

Mia’s sobs cut off instantly. Her eyes went wide. “Hoo-whee…” she breathed. She snatched the entire bag out of my hands with terrifying speed. “MINE!”

She dashed to the table, clearing a space for her feast with a single, sweeping arm motion that sent textbooks flying. Frantic unwrapping followed a second later.

I dropped my bag by the door, my body groaning. “You have an assignment?” I asked, sliding the door shut.

“Mmph-yeah,” she mumbled around a mouthful of chicken. “Homeroom teacher added it. If we don’t do it, we have to attend a supplemental lecture tomorrow. At 7 AM. For four hours.” She shuddered, a full-body tremor of horror.

I sank onto the couch opposite her. “Ah. I think that would be great. Character-building.”

“Agreed, Big Brother,” she said with deadly seriousness, dipping a mandu into sauce. Her sharp eyes flicked over to the corner where I’d propped my gear, landing on the newly polished, slightly dented buckler I’d looted outside the gate. “Ooh, shiny. Did you buy that?”

I followed her gaze. The simple steel shield gleamed dully in the lamplight. “Buy it?” I snorted. “No. It was… heaven’s grace. Bestowed upon me in my time of need. It spoke to me. It said, ‘Ethan, please take me away from this poop-filled hellscape.’”

Mia giggled, cheese stretching from her lip to her chin. “It talks?”

“Only to the truly desperate.” I pushed myself up with a groan. “I’m gonna take a quick shower. I think I need a solid decade of rest.”

---

Thanks for tagging along on this gloriously gross adventure. Your support keeps the story—and my sanity—alive. I hope you got a laugh or a cringe (or both) out of our dynamic duo’s less-than-heroic escape. Let me know what you thought of the post-dungeon chaos and the sibling vibes in the comments!