The Remnant Collector

Trrchk.

Trrrchk.

Hear that scraping? That’s me. Ash Rook.

Cool name, right? Made it up myself.

My old name was Background character number 33, which is pretty rude if you ask me. We have feelings too.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me take you through this world of ours. Back to the beginning—or close enough.

In this world, there are dungeons. And in those dungeons are Dungeon beasts—nasty, impossible creatures that tear through characters like confetti at a doomed parade.

To survive, the Church of Heroes had a brilliant idea: summon warriors from other worlds to protect us. Sounds smart, right?

Except it hasn’t worked as they imagined.

Heroes come and go. Mostly go.

This was the third grave I’ve dug today. My hands are covered in calluses like you wouldn’t believe. But hey, it’s my job.

The first two graves belonged to friends of mine. Background Characters 27 and 35.  The three of us have dug about forty-seven graves together. It was fun hanging out. I’ll miss them, but even more so as digging partners.

They called us scrap pickers.

I prefer Remnant Collectors. Has a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Trrrchk.

Ah. Back to it.

This third grave? It belonged to a certain hero.

You remember those summonings I mentioned? This guy was the latest one. The 50th Chosen One. From the Prophecies, it was supposed to take only one hero, our supposed saviour.

Instead, they’re just names I forget and corpses I bury.

I glanced down at him —blond hair, now matted and red.  His white cloak, pristine once, now looked unrecognizable. The kind of outfit you'd see on recruitment posters, back when the kingdom still bothered to pretend this cycle meant anything.

Trying too hard to be different. Blond hair in a new world? Real original.

The metal of my shovel bit into the dirt, still warm with magic residue and half-cooked blood. I had spent most of that morning gathering the broken swords and shattered armor from the battlefield. Near the Dungeons, I found some traces of other dead characters, an arm here, a piece of ear there, not enough to warrant their own graves. 

I checked his body for valuables, careful not to touch anything still humming with cursed energy.

The gauntlets? Cracked.

The sword he had? Bent beyond repair, but still glowing faintly. I love me such magic residue —nice.

His badge of summoning? Still intact—hanging at the hip like it’s waiting for a respawn that’ll never come.

I snatched it anyway. Summoning badges fetched a decent price in the black markets down south. Plenty of collectors like to hang them on their walls like trophy heads. Sick bastards.

As I dumped the corpse into the designated pit, something caught in my throat.

That old, stupid instinct again. The one that wants me to feel bad.

I squashed it.

Compassion is a luxury I burned out of myself years ago. You might think it's too cruel, but it's a necessary evil in my line of work.

Final part? Marking the grave with a flat stone.

Wait… what was his name?

Shit.

Ren? Jen? 

No, that’s not it. Ken? Doesn’t feel right either.

Doesn’t matter. I went with Ben, it seems right and it rhymes with ten, which is about how many hours he was alive.

The road back to the outpost was quiet. No cheers. No mourners around. The villagers already knew the drill by now. Another "hero" died before even reaching the first dungeon.

This one was the worst by far. I’m getting secondhand embarrassment just remembering it.

By the time I got back, the sun was bleeding orange across the sky like a wound too tired to close.

Waiting at the gate was Mira, the quartermaster.

Lean, sharp-eyed and silver-haired —not the elegant kind, more like her soul got scraped clean and forgot how to grow back. Her eyes shimmered like moonlight off a broken blade, and her smile was halfway between kindness and warning.

“You remembered to say a prayer?” she asked.

I wiped the sweat from my brow.

“Why even bother?” I asked. “We exist as background characters after all.”

“Emo much?” she snorted. “But you do have a fair point. We are nameless characters.”

“Yeah, right. Says the quartermaster.”

“Hey, I’m trying to be supportive, asshole,” she shot back, flicking her elegant hair. “Anyway, what do you have for me today?”

Mira, the quartermaster, was usually in charge of supplies and logistics. Basically, she maintains the armory and....um, weapons, sort out soul badges and some records, i think.

But her most important at least to me, was writing the death summaries for each hero, how they died and how long they were summoned and from what worlds.

Speaking of which:

“Hey, Mira. The hero's name was Ben, right?"

She smirked. "Sounds about right, but let me confirm.”

With a flick of her wrist she opened up a menu screen. “Hmm, let's see here.” She tapped the screen as the name came into focus.

“His name was Eli.”

I laughed and so did she. I didn’t even mean to do it. I actually feel bad about forgetting it but just how far off the mark was I? Anyway, I would change it now but after hours of digging, I was so tired. You can’t imagine how long it takes to dig four graves, not to mention finding and carrying the corpses.

I had to go home and take a nap. As I turned to leave, she stopped me with a grin.

“Hey, New summon tomorrow, are you excited?”

Of course there is.

The Church of Heroes never rests. Just keeps tossing poor souls into this meat grinder and calling it divine will.

“Ecstatic. What's this one's name?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Does it matter? Hopefully it's a girl for a change, to shake things up.”

"Either way, I'll be burying them by next week."

Later that night, I sat in my little room I shared with my friends. I sharpened a bent dagger I picked up two weeks ago from hero#49, as I glanced at their empty beds stacked on top of each other.

I couldn't even get excited by the dagger's chipped uneven edge that I love as it holds a faint echo of a dungeon beast's cursed energy. It must have been a grueling fight.

I kept it anyway. Like most things I collect.

I’ve handled more cursed weapons than any adventurer in this kingdom. Dragged more shattered armor through more blood-soaked dirt than any royal squire.

For the longest time, they were just keepsakes. Until they started talking to me.

Not in words, but in little tugs, vibrations, instincts. 

Started a few years back. I realized that the weapons somehow had residual energies of their owners' magic and by collecting them, I somehow did too.

Affinity Resonance. It's what i'm calling it, anyway

It’s not a spell or skill.

It’s a phenomenon —one that happens when someone that is, me, handles an artifact long enough for the artifact to start imprinting its residual spirit onto them. Think spiritual muscle memory.

Swordplay? Never formally trained but I can channel the skill of hero#25
Shield defense? Picked it up from a broken shield in half that could be used as a good slashing tool.
Trap detection? Learned the hard way. Multiple times.

I’ve seen so many techniques, so many flashy, useless skills—more spectacle than substance. All burned into my muscle memory from the sidelines. Watching. Noticing and Surviving.

Funny thing about heroes—they always make the same mistakes.

Overconfidence. Some claimed to know about this world and some too invested in creating their own harems.

There was one, though. One hero who didn’t suck.

A guy named Callen. Hero#33

Big, loud, carried a great sword the size of a cart axle, even I couldn’t carry it. But he… he was different. A few too many loose screws in his head but a honest cool guy. He used to toss me bread when no one was looking. Helped pull villagers from collapsed houses after raids. And even one time he protected me from a Dungeon Beast while I was burying some villagers.

Always cheerful and a smile that made you think everything was going to be okay.

He would tell me all the time, “Anyone can be a hero…even you.”

Nice words, but stupid nonetheless.

Even dumber coming from a guy who died four weeks later.

But… still. I remembered him fondly.