Ben stepped toward the dungeon gate's shimmering exit, the ethereal light washing over his black suit. As he did, the six Taxbound Goblins behind him slowed, then stopped altogether. Their once-confident swagger, born of their new uniforms and clubs, wilted. Their tiny faces, usually contorted in expressions of bureaucratic zeal, now held a hint of genuine fear.
"Boss... you really leaving us here?" one muttered, clutching his golden Club of Compliance like a lifeline, his voice a reedy whine.
Another, a particularly scrawny goblin with a nervous twitch, whimpered, "They're gonna eat us alive once you're gone, boss!"
Ben turned slightly, adjusting the knot of his tie with a precise, unhurried movement. His gaze swept over them, cold but not unkind. He understood their fear; they were still goblins, after all. "Do your job," he said, his voice flat, resonating with the System's authority. "And make sure they do theirs. I'll be back for the audit next month." With that, he stepped through the swirling portal, leaving them to their newfound, terrifying responsibilities.
Sunlight struck his black suit and polished shoes as he emerged onto the cracked pavement outside the gate. The air, thick with the smell of exhaust fumes and stale mana, felt jarringly familiar after the damp, fungal scent of the dungeon. Dozens of people stood outside—mostly F- and E-rank players, their gear a motley collection of scavenged armor and makeshift weapons, along with a few crisp-uniformed agents from the PBA (Player Bureau Association). Conversations around the gate cut off like static being muted, replaced by a sudden, stunned silence. All eyes were on him.
Ben kept walking, his steps even and unhurried, as if he were simply leaving an office building at the end of a long day. He could feel their gazes, a mix of confusion, awe, and suspicion.
"Yo... who the fuck is that?" a gruff voice broke the silence.
"He came out clean. No scratches, no blood. From an F-rank gate?" another whispered, disbelief thick in their tone.
"That's a Rank F gate. But that guy didn't even have single a weapon."
"He's gotta be S-rank, right? Or some kind of secret class?"
"No way. Maybe a safety inspector or a secret guild agent?"
One of the PBA field officers, a burly man with a perpetually tired expression, shook his head. "There's no such thing as a fucking safety inspection unit that dresses like that." He gestured dismissively at Ben's retreating back.
Ben ignored the noise, pulled out his phone, and began scanning local gates. His fingers moved with practiced ease over the screen, dismissing the whispers as mere background noise. He marked an E-rank orc nest five miles out. Dangerous for solo players—a place where even E-ranks often teamed up—but not impossible for someone with his unique "utility."
As he was about to walk off, a figure stepped into his path, blocking his way with an easy, fluid movement.
It was a young man, lean and tall, with skin a warm, dark brown. He wore light, functional armor, two curved swords strapped across his back. His long dreadlocks were tied back with a vibrant red wrap, framing a face that held an open, almost eager curiosity. There was energy in his step, a restless readiness, but no hint of the arrogance Ben had come to despise in most Players.
"Hey—uh, sorry, dude. Didn't mean to block you." The guy smiled, a genuine, easy grin, and offered his hand. "Just... hella curious. I'm Jordan. F-rank too."
Ben paused, his gaze assessing. He took the offered hand. Jordan's grip was firm, honest.
"Bennison," he said, his voice flat, but not unwelcoming. "Ben, for short."
"Cool name," Jordan nodded, withdrawing his hand. "So, listen... no offense, but everyone out here is tripping. You walked out of that gate like it was a damn office building. Clean as a whistle. Some people are whispering you're S-rank, others think you're, like, from the government or somethin'. Just curious—what's your class?" His eyes, bright and intelligent, held a genuine thirst for knowledge.
Ben straightened slightly, a subtle shift in his posture that somehow made him seem taller, more imposing. The moment of hesitation was gone. "Tax Collector."
Jordan blinked. Once. Twice. Then, his jaw dropped. "The fuck?"
Ben's expression didn't change, remaining perfectly neutral. "I'm not joking. I audit EXP and stat gains. Any unpaid or unreported earnings—monthly or otherwise—I collect."
Jordan raised both hands, a gesture of bewildered surrender. "W-Wait. Like a real tax collector? Inside a dungeon? You're telling me the IRS is here?"
"Yes," Ben replied calmly, as if discussing the weather. "Targets I mark are legally obligated to pay 25% of their total EXP and stat gains monthly. If they fail, they begin accruing penalties."
"Okay… what kind of penalties?" Jordan asked, a nervous laugh escaping him. He was trying to process this, and failing spectacularly.
Ben listed them like a bored clerk reading from a manual, his voice devoid of inflection, making the terrifying consequences sound utterly mundane:
"25% reduction to all stats." "25% skill effectiveness penalty." "Blocked EXP gain." "Debuff growth of 3% per missed month, up to 85% cap." "After 20 months, I initiate foreclosure."
Jordan's mouth dropped slightly, his eyes wide. "Foreclosure? Like—what, you repo their swords? Their magic staffs?"
"No," Ben replied calmly, a faint, almost imperceptible glint in his eye. "I seize their EXP, stats, and optionally, their body."
"...Shit," Jordan breathed, running a hand through his dreadlocks. "You're serious."
"If they still refuse," Ben continued, ignoring the profanity, "I can forcibly detain them in a pocket dimension. Once inside, I judge whether their debt can be settled."
Jordan shook his head slowly, still processing. "That's... nuts. So what happens in there? In this pocket dimension?"
Ben ticked off the options on his fingers, each one a chilling sentence:
"Debt reset—back to Level 1. Permanent." "Debt servitude—they work for me, collecting taxes." "Or permanent sealing. Their remaining EXP and stats are drained until death." "Unless someone bails them out by paying their full debt."
Jordan stood in stunned silence, his earlier curiosity replaced by a profound sense of unease. He looked at Ben, then back at the gate, then at Ben again, as if trying to reconcile the mild-mannered man with the terrifying implications of his words.
Ben gave a small shrug, a gesture that conveyed both indifference and absolute finality. "Those are the rules."
"That's insane. You're telling me this is a real-ass class? Not some glitch?"
"It is."
"Dude," Jordan finally said, a slow, incredulous laugh bubbling up, "you realize how broken that is, right? You're basically a goddamn walking debuff machine!"
Ben's gaze didn't waver, meeting Jordan's incredulity with a calm, steady intensity. "I don't level up by killing. I only gain 10% of the EXP I collect. The rest goes directly to the System, to maintain its functions or something."
Jordan laughed in disbelief, shaking his head. "Still sounds overpowered as hell. Can you tax, like, S-rank players too? The ones who actually run this fucked-up world?"
"Not yet," Ben admitted, a hint of something unsaid in his voice. "I can only tax entities up to fifty levels above my current."
"So if you're like level 14... max target's level 64?"
"Correct."
Jordan whistled, a low, impressed sound. "Still scary as hell. Will you... tax other players? Like, us?" He gestured vaguely at the crowd.
Ben considered, his eyes scanning the milling F- and E-ranks, most of whom were still whispering about him. "Not unless I choose to. For now, I focus on monsters."
Jordan raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "For now, huh?"
Ben's lips curled into the faintest smirk in return, a rare, almost imperceptible softening of his stern expression. "Yeah. For now." The implication hung in the air: the monsters were just practice.
Jordan looked him over, his initial shock giving way to a calculating gleam in his eyes. He was a Player, after all, always looking for an edge. "Can I join you? Not gonna lie—seeing what you can do is sick. I mean, I'm good with movement, slicing, dodging. Butterfly Swordsman class. But I don't got utility like you. My damage is decent, but I can't debuff or control like that."
Ben hesitated. A partner. It was an unexpected offer. He was used to working alone, to the quiet, solitary grind of bureaucracy. But his class did have limitations.
"It's not what you think," he finally said, his voice a warning. "My class has emergency systems. I don't do direct damage. I don't level up through combat. But I can apply some small debuffs around. Disarm. Silence. Chain imprisonment."
"Bruh, what do you mean small? That's still fucking broken!" Jordan nearly shouted, his excitement overriding his caution.
"I also can't deal with ranged attacks and AoE," Ben countered, his tone firm. " Poison, fire zones, corrosion magic—I don't have a mitigation system yet. Until I solve that, I'm not broken. I'm vulnerable."
Jordan raised a finger, conceding the point. "Okay. Fair enough."
Ben added, "I also don't earn anything from monster magic crystals, since I can't kill debtors; the System requires them to be alive for collection. So no loot for me from the kills."
"That sucks," Jordan admitted, his face falling slightly. "So no loot for you from kills?"
Ben shook his head. "None."
Jordan rubbed his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Okay, okay. But maybe we can team up. You do your tax magic shit. I kill the monsters. Maybe you can still collect their EXP tax before they die, right? Like, you mark them, I kill them, and you get your cut?"
Ben thought about it. The synergy was undeniable. Jordan provided the direct combat, the raw damage, while Ben provided the control, the debuffs, and the income. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. "There's no harm in trying," he conceded, a flicker of something akin to anticipation in his eyes.
He tapped his phone again, confirming the next location. An E-rank gate had opened nearby—Orc Nest. Normally, an E-rank player could raid one rank below and one above. Ben, at Level 8, was just barely qualified for an E-rank gate, but with Jordan, it was a different story.
Orcs were vicious. They weren't monsters you could reason with. But they had an ecosystem. A hierarchy. They earned EXP through battles—internal and external. That meant income. That meant taxes.
Ben pocketed his phone, a grim determination settling over him.
"Let's go," he said, his voice low, almost a growl.
Jordan cracked his knuckles, a wide, excited grin spreading across his face. "Hell yeah. Let's go collect some backpay."