As Ragnar swallowed the final crumb, his body had already swelled in size. The deflated skin pumped up with muscle, and the sickly, starving complexion was replaced by a healthy, adrenaline-fueled flush of red.

  He stood up. His seven-foot-two frame cast a massive shadow in the cramped kitchen, exuding a suffocating level of pressure.

  He glanced at the apprentice ghost huddled in the corner.

  Tom, the ghost, was curled up against the wall. The madness driven by the resentment of death-by-overwork had faded; right now, he just looked like an ordinary, confused, and exhausted young man.

  "My... my dough?" Tom asked instinctively, though his voice was faint, lacking that paranoid screech.

  Ragnar grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellow teeth speckled with breadcrumbs.

  "Ate it." He patted his belly. "Tastes okay. A bit sour, though. Remember to add more sugar next time."

  Tom froze. He looked at the empty racks, then at the clean oven. The heavy burden that had crushed his heart—the compulsion to finish the order—was suddenly just... gone.

  Without the resentment holding him together, his body began to glow with a faint white light—the sign of passing on.

  "Thank you..." Tom whispered. He didn't fully understand what had happened, but he felt a long-lost sense of relief.

  Ragnar nodded, accepting the thanks.

  Then, he didn't disappear immediately.

  His gaze shifted to the tightly closed kitchen door. Even through the wood, his keen predatory senses picked up the rapid breathing and heartbeat of the fat boss eavesdropping right outside.

  Ragnar let out a cold snort.

  He was a warrior, and a reaver. In his code of values, while you paid (or gave thanks) for food, those who oppressed the weak—and dared to feed him sour bread—required a "return gift."

  He bent down and picked up the twin-bladed battle axe he had dropped earlier.

  Although the axe was spotted with rust, the moment Ragnar gripped it, a blood-red rune lit up along the blade.

  John jumped. "What are you doing? Mission accomplished!"

  "Accomplished?" Ragnar glanced back at John, his look chilling John to the bone. "Little mage, you're too green. The mission isn't just sending the ghost away; it's teaching the 'ghost-maker' a lesson. Otherwise, a new ghost will just spawn here tomorrow."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  With that, he raised the battle axe.

  "This is the Viking way!"

  Ragnar didn't chop the door. He thought that was too slow.

  He swung his axe straight into the partition wall between the kitchen and the front of the shop.

  That was a brick wall.

  But under the Berserker’s monstrous strength, the wall crumbled like a cracker, blasted open into a gaping hole. Bricks, dust, and wood chips flew everywhere.

  Outside, Beck was pressing his ear to the crack to eavesdrop when his vision suddenly went black, followed by a deafening crash.

  Beck screamed as he rolled backward, crashing into his solid wood executive desk—the altar where he counted money, calculated profits, and docked workers' wages.

  A massive silhouette stepped out of the hole in the wall.

  Ragnar carried the battle axe, the floorboards creaking under his heavy boots with every step. He walked up to Beck and looked down at the shivering fat man.

  "Don't... don't kill me! I'm a good citizen!" Beck was so scared he wet his pants, waving his hands wildly. "I have money! I have money!"

  Ragnar ignored the begging.

  He raised the battle axe.

  Beck closed his eyes, waiting for death.

  But no blood was spilled.

  Ragnar’s axe didn’t land on Beck’s head. instead, it chopped viciously into the heavy executive desk behind him.

  The thick, solid wood table—a symbol of the boss's authority—was split clean in half. The calculator, ledgers, and the locked-tight safe on the desk were all sent flying.

  The safe hit the floor and popped open. Stacks of cash rolled out, along with the IOU Tom had signed but never got back.

  Ragnar yanked the axe out of the wood wreckage, spraying splinters.

  He leaned down, his bearded face inches from Beck’s, his green eyes burning with fury.

  "Your bread is sour. It tastes like tears. I hate that taste."

  "That kid is gone. But I’m still watching you."

  Ragnar pointed at the ceiling, then pointed at the shattered safe.

  "Pay his family back. Now. Immediately. If you dare stiff them, or dock the next guy's pay..."

  Ragnar grinned a hideous smile and made a throat-slitting gesture.

  "Next time, I won't be chopping a table."

  Beck went limp, nodding frantically. "I'll pay! I'll pay! I'll give it right now! All of it!"

  Ragnar straightened up, satisfied.

  At this point, his body began to turn transparent—the signal that the summoning time was up.

  He turned to look at John.

  "Kid, good job on this gig."

  He fished a gold coin out of his tunic—an ancient Viking coin engraved with the image of Odin. He tossed it casually to John.

  "Here's a tip. Keep it as a souvenir."

  With that, Ragnar dissolved into countless golden particles, vanishing into the air.

  In the kitchen, the apprentice ghost, Tom, also transformed into a soft beam of white light, diving into the tablet in John's hand.

  [Evaluation: S-Rank (Not only exorcised the spirit but achieved social justice).]

  [Reward: 500 Credits (Deposited) + 100 Merit Points.]

  [Bonus: Ragnar's Acknowledgement (Unlocked "Berserker" Class Spirit Affinity).]

  The shop fell dead silent.

  Only the sound of Beck shivering in the pile of debris remained.

  John looked at the tablet in his hand, then at the heavy gold coin.

  He took a deep breath, feeling the suffocating frustration in his chest finally dissipate a little.

  He walked up to Beck.

  Beck flinched back. "M... Master... anything else?"

  John pointed at the money on the floor.

  "Remember what you said. Send the money. I'll be checking."

  With that, John turned and walked out of the bakery, which was now much more "open-concept" than before.

  Outside, the sunlight finally pierced the smog, shining on the streets of Sector 13.

  Although he only made 500 bucks—still a long way from 50 grand.

  But John touched the money in his pocket and felt, for the first time, that this damn agent job... maybe wasn't so bad after all.

  At least, it felt pretty damn good.

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