It began with whispers.
A rumor, spreading through the black alleys of the underworld, through taverns thick with smoke and rot-slick gold.
"He's built it," they said. "The Bleach Bringer."
"The Purifier's final weapon."
"A cleansing cannon that can erase corruption down to the soul."
Kazuki, of course, hadn't called it that.
He'd named it, rather plainly: The Holy Pressure Washer Mk I — a magically enhanced, shoulder-mounted water cannon that could release jets of blessed, temperature-controlled water at 300 psi. It ran on a rechargeable mana crystal and had three nozzles: spray, stream, and "obliterate."
Its purpose? Sanitize entire buildings, especially rot-infested zones too dangerous for hand-based purification.
Its unintended side effect?
Terror.
The Cult of Rot issued the first notice.
A crude parchment, nailed to the gates of the Academy.
WANTED: KAZUKI TANAKA, BLEACH BRINGER
Dead or infected.
Reward: 10,000 gold, three plaguebeasts, and a place in the Rotmother's Second Womb.
Kazuki stared at the flyer. "That's a very gross reward."
Lila blinked. "What's the Second Womb?"
Brant whispered, "Don't Google it."
The bounty spread fast.
Within days, mercenaries, rogue mages, and rot-affiliated bounty hunters began crawling toward the capital like parasites to a fever.
Some wore plague masks. Others came disguised as wandering healers. One tried to sneak into the Academy disguised as a janitor.
Big mistake.
Kazuki caught him mopping clockwise instead of counter-clockwise.
Instant expulsion.
By that night, posters appeared all over the city: Kazuki's face (grumpy, mid-sneeze), labeled:
"Public Threat. Sanitation Extremist. Bleach-Bringer."
Report sightings to any local underboss or Rot Cult node.
But what truly escalated things was what the Holy Pressure Washer did in Greygut Alley.
The alley had been long lost to disease—an entire street overrun by cursed slums and rot monsters nesting in the remains of former residents.
Kazuki took his prototype and entered alone.
In three minutes, the alley was clean.
Rot piles sizzled. Mold sizzled. A plague cloud screamed and evaporated. One beggar stood up mid-purification, suddenly sober and oddly craving soap.
When the washer stopped steaming, Kazuki looked back at the crowd of stunned city guards.
He wiped his face.
"Needs a stronger nozzle."
That night, assassins attacked the Academy.
Kazuki fended them off with a combination of broom combat, pressure bursts, and a flashbang soap bomb. But it became clear: this was no longer just personal.
The bounty was war.
The Queen summoned him.
"You've turned a weapon of hygiene into a legend," she said. "You've made soap... political."
Kazuki frowned. "Everything's political if you're dirty enough."
"You've made enemies of the underworld. Of the Rot Cult. Of the apothecary guilds that sell fake cures. They want your head."
Kazuki simply slung the pressure washer over his shoulder and turned to leave.
"Let them try," he said. "I'll clean the whole damn continent if I have to."
Somewhere in a marsh far from the capital, a tall, hooded figure emerged from the water.
Half-human. Half-fungus. Covered in rot symbols.
He looked at the bounty notice again. Smiled.
"I'll bring him in clean pieces."