Wesley took a steady breath, his heart still drumming from the sheer weight of the reward screen hovering in his mind's eye.
The thought of earning a real Knight Skill and actual silver coins had him feeling as if he'd just drunk three pots of the academy's strongest mana-brewed tea.
And yet, the thrill was replaced by a new awareness.
There's no way I'm finishing this if they start walking around. Or if the students get in the way. I need the arena clear.
Without wasting another second, he walked briskly toward Instructor Heiron, who had been casually waving off some of his students' loud chatter and jokes.
"Sir Heiron," Wesley called out respectfully, pausing a few steps short. "Do we need to hurry and clear the arena right away?"
Instructor Heiron, caught off guard, turned to look at him. He stared at Wesley for a few long seconds, as though weighing something behind his eyes.
Then he shrugged gently and replied, "No, not at all. Let them have a moment to enjoy themselves. No need to rush."
That single phrase made Wesley's heart leap. A glint passed through his eyes like sunlight off a blade. With a quick bow, he smiled broadly. "Thank you, sir."
He turned, walked away slowly—then the moment his back was to Heiron, he launched himself with a joyful skip toward the other cleaners, who were already starting to gather their tools.
He slid to a stop before them and turned with a dramatic sweep of his mop like it was a nobleman's rapier.
"Everyone!" Wesley shouted, puffing out his chest. "Listen well!"
All heads turned. Students, cleaners, even a few teachers nearby paused to look.
"I am Wesley Anatoly Grime!" he announced grandly. "I come from the outer wall districts of Kaleborne, raised among dust, rats, and the unyielding scent of floor wax! I am not just your fellow cleaner today—no—I am your leader in mop, your captain in soap, your general in grime!"
There was a full moment of silence.
Then a wave of muffled chuckles broke among the students.
The other cleaners looked at him as though he'd just thrown a bucket of slime on himself.
"What the hell is he doing?" one of the boys whispered.
"Did he just call himself… general in grime?" a girl muttered, blinking.
But Wesley stood tall, sweeping his eyes across the stunned crowd. He didn't care how cringe-worthy and weird he was, damn! Because he couldn't contain his feelings.
Imagine receiving all those magic spells and skills of Knighthood; it would be hard for others to learn them, even if they knew or read about the spells or skills.
But him?
Just cleaning would allow him to learn them all. Not just that, he would get some coins too!
Who would care if what he was doing was cringe?
Who would care if he's over the top?
In his last life, he would do anything for fifty dollars, as long as it was quick and wouldn't land him in jail. He didn't care. So, cleaning while getting stronger and richer was just like that too.
A simple task! He just needed a simple, thick skin to take it!
"Now, my fellow sweepers of justice," Wesley continued, "I ask of you… no—I pay you! Wait for me. Just fifteen minutes. Give me that time, and I'll reward each of you five bronze coins."
Gasps erupted.
One of the older women cleaners raised a brow. "You? Pay us?"
Wesley nodded confidently. "You saw me get those silvers from Gabe earlier, right? I'm good for it."
They began to murmur among themselves. A younger cleaner leaned toward another and whispered, "I mean, if he can afford it…"
Another added, "If it's just waiting for fifteen minutes, why not? I was going to rest anyway."
"Still weird, though," someone murmured. "What's he trying to do?"
Then another cleaner piped up, "What about Instructor Heiron? Does he know?"
Wesley, still standing proud like a stage performer, clapped his chest. "I already asked. He said he doesn't mind. He wants everyone to relax for a bit."
He turned his back to them with a victorious grin. "Wait here. I need to try something."
Silence. Then nods. Shrugs. Grumbles of acceptance.
Wesley was already moving.
He stepped to the first edge of the arena, narrowed his eyes, and stared at a thick patch of dried dirt mixed with monster ash. He knelt beside it, tapped it with his mop, and whispered, "This'll take… ten hard strokes. At least."
He moved to another spot. "Seven soft strokes. Gentle. Just enough pressure."
Another. "Thirteen. These scorch marks are nasty."
He scurried about the arena like an obsessed cartographer, mapping out battlefields not with terrain markers but with imagined broom strokes, mop angles, and pressure ratios.
People stared.
"What is he doing now?" one student asked.
"Is he seriously testing the ground?" another whispered.
The other cleaners watched, slack-jawed, as Wesley talked to himself like a man possessed.
"That bloodstain... hmm, no. That's going to need a forward thrust, pause, then a twist. Mop-pivot... maybe a twirl?"
He pointed to another patch. "That'll need speed—five rapid swipes followed by a buffer cloth wipe."
A girl whispered to her friend, "Should we be impressed… or worried?"
By the time Wesley had scanned all forty-seven spots, his shirt clung to him. His breath was shallow but eager. Then, as he stood in the center of the arena again, mop gripped in both hands, something changed.
To the others, the floor looked the same.
But to Wesley, the world around him flickered.
He blinked, and the stains were no longer just grime.
The arena was changing—shifting. A grand illusion draped over it like a layer of mana-made truth.
One by one, the designated spots transformed before his eyes into ghostly humanoid figures.
Each bore the aura of a spiritual warrior, dressed in ancient sect robes, bearing immortal weapons of every shape and aura—halberds wreathed in fire, swords made of starlight, shields shaped from lotus petals hardened to steel.
They didn't move.
But they posed.
Each one stood as though waiting for a duel. Waiting for Wesley.
Waiting to be defeated.
He took a half-step back, eyes wide. "W-what the hell is this...?"
The warriors' eyes glowed faintly.
Some looked ready to charge. Others, like monks in a temple, simply raised their weapons in peaceful challenge, daring him to come forward and test his will against theirs.
They weren't real. They couldn't be.
And yet—
"Shit…" Wesley whispered. "Can I even… clean—I mean, beat all of them?"
The pressure was immense. Every warrior—every spiritual projection—seemed like a mini-boss of their own. And the timer had yet to begin, but his pulse was already racing like he was in the middle of a raid.
But this was his mission.
This was his trial.
He tightened his grip on the mop, the wood still warm from Instructor Heiron's earlier restoration. He felt every ounce of pressure rising from his soles to his fingertips.
Forty-seven designated enemies.
Fifteen minutes.
No reinforcements.
No backup.
Just a janitor… with a system.
"I have an idea," Wesley whispered to the phantom warriors.
And somewhere in his mind, the mission timer clicked down.
Fifteen minutes remaining.