"Fellow cleaners!" Wesley shouted, thrusting his mop high into the air like a war banner. "Let's clean them all!"
At first, silence.
Then, a wave of confused expressions rippled through the gathered cleaners. One of them—a broad-shouldered man with thick brows—tilted his head. "Why are you suddenly acting like our leader?"
Another cleaner muttered under her breath, "Is this guy serious?"
Wesley held his ground. He couldn't back down now. "I'll pay all of you. Five bronze coins each—again. If you just listen to me and follow orders. We finish faster that way. What do you say?"
Still no takers.
They stared at him, hesitant, suspicious. Some even looked amused. Their brooms and buckets hung idly in their hands, feet shuffling slightly, uncertain.
"…Why the rush?" a tall girl with a short broom finally asked.
Wesley exhaled deeply. "Because some crazy old man named Greg promised to train me if I cleaned five places: the Sand Pit, the Trial Dome, the Obsidian Yard, the Echo Hall, and this good old Knight Arena Four we're standing in right now."
That made them pause.
Then—
Laughter exploded across the group like thunder after a long silence.
They didn't mean to be cruel, but the sound was sharp, echoing, almost painful.
"Greg? That Greg?" someone said between chuckles.
"No way! You're telling us that old coot gave you that task?"
"He's either messing with you, or he really hates your guts!"
Wesley watched as their laughter intensified. Some doubled over, others wiped away tears. One even leaned on her mop like a walking cane to stay upright.
"There's no way!" one of them laughed. "You'd need a full week just to clean the Obsidian Yard!"
Another chimed in, "And the Echo Hall? Forget it. That place duplicates grime like it's alive!"
"Even this arena," someone pointed to the floor, "requires at least four people for an hour—with teamwork!"
Wesley remained still, scratching the back of his head and laughing awkwardly. I suck at persuasion, he admitted to himself. But what else can I do?
He had to try.
But then—
"All right," came a flat, dry voice.
Heads turned toward the speaker.
A man stepped forward. Thin as a rake, pale as parchment, and quiet as the dead. He looked more like a skeleton wrapped in cleaner's rags than a real person. He moved like a ghost, slow and floaty, and yet... not weak. His eyes were sunken but sharp, distant but calculating.
"…Zane?" someone whispered.
Another muttered, "The skeleton guy…"
They all recognized him. He wasn't loud. He didn't banter. But some remembered how he'd once given Gabe a real challenge in a wooden sword drill—despite barely having the strength to stand. He only lost because of his body's limitations.
And now here he was, stepping forward without hesitation.
Wesley blinked. Why him? he wondered. He'd noticed earlier how Zane hadn't flinched during Instructor Heiron's brutal plant magic—unlike the others.
He didn't know what made Zane move. Maybe it was curiosity. Or maybe it was something else entirely.
And then—
"I'll help too," said another voice.
And another.
And another.
Soon, one after another, cleaners stepped forward.
They weren't the most impressive bunch—most looked tired, their uniforms stained, backs bent from endless scrubbing. But as they stepped up, one by one, Wesley noticed something strange:
There was a presence to them.
Not just ordinary workers. Each had something unique—something that made them feel… sharpened, like hidden blades kept tucked under dull sleeves.
A bald man with burn marks across his arms.
A short woman with wrists wrapped in old fighter's tape.
A boy who moved a little too lightly for someone with a mop.
"You're really going to try?" one of them asked Wesley.
Wesley nodded. "Yeah."
The speaker narrowed his eyes. "Greg promised to train you? If you cleaned all those places?"
"That's right," Wesley replied.
"And what if you fail?" the man asked, stepping closer. "What if you never become a Mana user?"
Wesley paused. His heart thudded.
Then he looked up, smiled, and said, "Then I can only blame my luck. But as long as there's even a one percent chance to become one, I'll take it."
There was a pause.
Then the same cleaner asked, "Why? Why risk so much?"
Wesley's eyes burned with a spark of childish hope, like a flame flickering against the wind.
"Isn't it obvious?" he said, lifting his mop with both hands like a holy staff. "It's cool to be a Mana user!"
The others tilted their heads.
"You get to throw fireballs and lightning bolts!"
He took a few steps forward, mimicking a fireball motion with his hands.
"You can strengthen your back and legs and leap across rooftops!"
He crouched low, then jumped in place like he was landing from a heroic leap.
"Conjure spells from scrolls, summon illusions, bend the world to your will!"
He began acting out various attacks, swiping his mop like a sword, spinning it like a staff, twirling like a circus fighter on his final show.
"You can wear enchanted cloaks, charge through beasts with magic armor, fight monsters, become legends! And all I've got is this mop!"
He stopped mid-twirl, panting slightly, grinning.
Silence again.
Then—
"That was the dumbest thing I've ever heard," someone said with a snort.
Another added, "But I kinda get it…"
Then the cleaner who'd questioned him smiled faintly. "Your determination is commendable. If you really do become a Mana user, I hope you don't regret it."
Wesley put a hand on his chest and bowed dramatically. "I hope so too."
Fools, he thought. I already am one… but you don't need to know that.
Finally, with the last of the doubters folding in, the group that had stepped forward began rolling up their sleeves, grabbing mops, pails, scrubbing brushes. Some cracked their necks. Others looked out over the arena, squinting at the grime-stained tiles like generals planning a war campaign.
Wesley stared at them, stunned. He hadn't expected to actually pull this off.
He blinked again, wondering if this was all just some odd fever dream from his late-night meat bun binge.
Then he smiled.
Instead of asking why they agreed, he just turned to the group, raised his mop, and shouted:
"Let's go!"
"Don't forget your pay!" one of them called back with a grin.
Wesley froze mid-stride.
His mouth twitched. "…Okay," he muttered.
And then, with the ghostly warriors still posing before him, and his strange squad of misfit cleaners at his back, Wesley took his first step forward—into battle. Or rather, into the deepest, weirdest, most intense cleaning spree of his life.