The roar reverberated through the cramped back kitchen, shaking the grease-caked incandescent bulb overhead until it swung like a pendulum, casting chaotic, jagged shadows against the walls.

  He completely ignored the apprentice ghost, who had its razor-claws raised, ready to disembowel John. In his eyes, that semi-translucent little runt was nothing more than a housefly buzzing over a dinner table—annoying, sure, but hardly a threat.

  Like a runaway bulldozer, he shattered the floor tiles beneath his feet with a single stomp and charged—trailing a gale of bloodlust—straight toward the oven reeking of that intense, sour stench.

  "Piss off! That's mine!"

  Although the apprentice ghost felt a primal terror emanating from the depths of his soul, the pathological obsession with work carved into his very bones drove him to instinctively protect his "workstation." He let out a piercing shriek, clawing at Ragnar’s back with skeletal, withered ghost hands, trying to stop this savage from getting anywhere near his dough.

  Ragnar didn’t even look back. With supreme casualness, he swatted backward as if shooing a fly.

  That massive, fan-sized hand didn't physically touch the spirit, but the shockwave of bloodlust it generated slammed into the ghost like a solid, invisible wall.

  The apprentice ghost screamed, the impact hitting him like a speeding semi-truck. He was blasted across the room by the shockwave, plastering against the opposite wall like a decal with a wet splat. He stuck there, unable to peel himself off, his spiritual form blurring from the concussion.

  "Don't block my trough!"

  Ragnar charged the oven. Deciding the iron handle was too fiddly for his liking, he reached out with his massive, calloused hands and clamped onto the searing hot metal doorframe directly.

  Accompanied by the groaning of twisting metal, he ripped the heavy industrial oven door—hinges and all—clean off, treating it like a piece of scrap paper. He tossed it behind him without a thought. The steel slab crashed near John’s feet, gouging a crater in the floor and sending John scrambling backward in terror.

  Three days' worth of concentrated resentment, acidity, and materialized negative energy, no longer contained, erupted from the gaping maw of the oven like high-pressure steam.

  The stench was overpowering. John clamped a hand over his nose, eyes watering, feeling like someone had dumped a barrel of aged vinegar onto a pile of rotting corpses.

  He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, wearing the euphoric expression of a junkie taking their first hit.

  "Aye! That's the stuff! This flavor... it reminds me of fermented herring buried in a bog for six months! Tastes like home!"

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Immediately after, he unhinged his jaw, opening a maw that looked capable of swallowing an ox whole.

  Deep in his throat, a miniature cyclone began to spin, emitting a low, vibrating hum.

  "Odin be praised! Thank you for this feast!"

  Unique Racial Skill: Viking Berserker — [Gluttony] activated.

  He began to physically inhale the resentment from the oven.

  The dark red negative energy—representing pain, overwork, and death—was originally formless. But under the vacuum of Ragnar's terrifying lung capacity and spiritual absorption, it was forced to condense into tangible streams of red smoke. Like spectral noodles, they were sucked uncontrollably into his gullet.

  Ragnar even extended a tongue covered in barbs, greedily licking the inner walls of the oven, scraping up the residual resentment scum and rolling it into his mouth with a spine-chilling chewing sound.

  Plastered against the wall, the apprentice ghost wailed in despair:

  "No! That's mine! My resentment! Give it back! I can't work without it! The boss will dock my pay!"

  He struggled to crawl down, but stripped of the resentment that sustained him, his body grew increasingly transparent and weak, like a deflated balloon.

  Ragnar ignored him completely. He was busy swallowing.

  As the massive volume of resentment was drained, the eerie green glow inside the oven dimmed rapidly. The nauseating sour stench dissipated along with it.

  In its place, the red glow radiating from Ragnar grew brighter. His muscles engorged with blood, and his previously sunken belly inflated like a balloon, emitting a satisfied rumble as if a furnace were roaring inside.

  Three minutes later.

  The oven was spotless. Not a speck of dust remained.

  Ragnar let out a thunderous, echoing belch. A cloud of black exhaust puffed from his lips—the indigestible impurities.

  He patted his stomach, the green hunger-light in his eyes fading to reveal clarity.

  "That flavor... was barely an appetizer."

  He turned his head, his gaze finally settling on the apprentice ghost, who had slid to the floor and was shivering uncontrollably.

  The apprentice ghost stared at this monster, convinced he was next on the menu. He curled into a ball, too terrified to even sob aloud.

  Ragnar strode over, shaking the floorboards with every step. He squatted down, inspecting the ghost like one would inspect a fish at the market, and poked the spirit's forehead with a thick finger.

  "Too scrawny. All bitter bile, no chew."

  Ragnar shook his head in disgust. "Not even worth the floss."

  Then, his gaze drifted past the ghost, landing on the nearby racks filled with unsold, sour, rock-hard baguettes.

  Sure, they were spoiled. Sure, they smelled sour.

  But they were solid, belly-filling carbohydrates.

  Ragnar’s eyes lit up again, this time with the light of pure bliss—the look of a starving man spotting a feast.

  He marched over, grabbed a baguette, and without caring about the mold spots, shoved it directly into his mouth.

  The sound of rock-hard bread shattering made John’s teeth ache.

  "Boo hoo hoo..." This Berserker, who had looked like a demon moments ago, actually started weeping tears of joy as he frantically gnawed on the bread. Big, fat teardrops rolled into his beard.

  "Haven't had anything this solid in ages... Those bastards in Valhalla only know how to roast meat... I want wheat... I need starch..."

  He was like a human woodchipper, grabbing with both hands. Baguette after baguette disappeared into his maw. He even licked the trays clean of crumbs.

  John stood in the corner, clutching his tablet, watching this absurd scene with his mind completely blank.

  This is a legendary Heroic Spirit?

  This is the "Professional" Singularity talked about?

  But it certainly worked.

  The lethal sour stench was completely gone.

  And that berserk ghost... with his "energy source" devoured, now looked as docile as a bunny.

  "Well..." John stared at the [Current Threat: 0] on his tablet and muttered to himself, "I guess that counts as... Physical Salvation?"

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