The forge smelled like soot and pig sweat.
After gaining one level in Blacksmith, I was done with it. Garlon was skilled, sure but not refined. And honestly, I didn't like him. His heavy breathing, his judgmental eyes, and his inability to teach beyond "hit it until it looks right" grated on me.
"I'll go back someday when I find a real master," I told myself. "For now, I need to pivot."
That's when I remembered something.
From my past life the life on Earth before I died I remembered fragments of the Great Tomb of Nazarick from Overlord. Not just the monsters or warriors, but the hidden roles. The ones who kept the Tomb running like a flawless machine.
Cleaners.
Cooks.
They weren't just side characters. They had levels, skills, and even rare or legendary class variants. If even maids had levels in Nazarick, then i can get them…
"What's stopping me from becoming the greatest damn cleaner in the New World?.. that sounded better in my head"
I started in the most humble of ways.
No fanfare. No swords. Just a rag. A bucket. And sheer, obsessive determination.
But I didn't clean like the other villagers. They wiped soot with dirty cloths and called it a day. They swept dirt under rugs and smiled at the result. I didn't. I remembered Earth's standards.
"If I'm going to grind levels… then I clean until the walls reflect sunlight."
And so I did.
Every morning after farming, I would sneak into the house with tools of my own invention:
Soap made by boiling animal fat with ash from the hearth, just like traditional lye soap. Crushed wildflowers added for scent lavender, clover, and crushed daisy petals. Homemade scrub brushes, woven rags, and even rudimentary vinegar cleaners made from fermented apples.
I scoured the walls, floors, windows, pots, and even the rafters. I dug dirt from corners with knives. I rinsed chamber pots with boiling water, scrubbed the inside of the chicken coop, and polished wooden tools until the grain gleamed like marble.
Three days in.
That's when it hit me.
That familiar pulse. That spark of inner clarity.
Then half a day later it happen again.
And again.
Three levels in less than a week. Just from cleaning. Not just any cleaning but deep cleaning. I danced around the house like a silent ghost, mopping and polishing, brushing and folding, until even the rats avoided my corners in shame.
And gods, it was fun.
Something about the immediate visual payoff going from dusty to spotless, from foul-smelling to sweet filled me with a calm sense of releaf. I can get used to this.
The village always made black bread tough, overcooked, brick-hard.
"Do they think burning it adds flavor?"
But I had flour. Water. Heat. I remembered how bread was supposed to be made. I ground the wheat finer, boiled water, let the dough rest longer, added some crushed flower petals for subtle sweetness. The first loaf I pulled from the fire was… perfect.
Soft.
Fluffy.
Fragrant.
I took a bite and nearly cried.
And then i felt it a small hum in my body. But that was it. After that one level up no further levels came. Probably because all I had was wheat no variety, no seasoning, no meat, no milk, no eggs. Just flour and wild herbs. I needed better ingredients to level further.
Still… it was a start.
It started with silence. The first day into Ren's cleaning, mother walked into the house and just… froze. The walls were gleaming. The floorboards no longer creaked. The windows were so clear she thought someone had stolen the glass. The air smelled faintly of lavender and honey.
"Tomas…" she called, wide-eyed. "Did… did you clean the house?"
"No," he called back from outside.
She stepped forward slowly, looking for traps, almost afraid. Then she found me.
Standing near the hearth, polishing a brass ladle until it shone like silver.
"Ren…?"
I turned around with a soft smile.
"Just cleaning, Mama."
Later that night, she sat beside my father, staring at her tea with furrowed brows.
"He made what he calls soap, Tomas. And the bread he baked this morning… it tasted like something you'd find at a noble's table."
"He's nine."
"He cleans like a servant from the royal palace. He lifts heavy buckets like nothing. He doesn't get tired. He'd never cry."
"He's an odd ball, that one," my father muttered.
But then he sighed.
"But he's our boy. And by the 4 gods, the house is cleaner than it's ever been."
Because deep down, they think they knew Ren wasn't normal, but he wasn't dangerous.
[REN INFO CARD]
vermin killer: 8/15
Farmer:3/15
Carpentry:1/15
Blacksmith:1/10
Cleaner:3/15
Cook:1/10