Currently, Wesley was just sloshing his mop across the arena floor, eyes focused on the old stains of blood and shallow gashes carved into the worn stone.
He traced them absentmindedly with the frayed strands of his mop, estimating how many strokes it would take to get them clean.
In his mind, he made notes—two strokes for dried blood, three for sticky guts, five if it was soaked into a crack.
That stain near the wall? Probably left by a failed spear technique. The one near the center? Maybe a misstep in footwork.
He was learning something from all of it.
In fact, with each swish of the mop, he imagined himself reenacting the battles, piecing together the rhythm of the fights that had taken place here.
It was his private form of study, a strange fusion of imagination, observation, and system-assisted intuition.
He wasn't ready to take on his mission yet, but he was preparing. Quietly. Gradually. To make it more fun in his imagination.
And then a voice broke through the silence like a slap.
"Oh, I remember you!" someone shouted. "You're the Spear of Heaven!"
Wesley looked up, confused, brow furrowed.
The one yelling had a familiar face—too familiar, in fact.
He was tall, sharp-featured, and carried himself with the smugness of someone who thought the world owed him praise just for existing.
Wesley blinked. Wait… is that… Cape? Nape? Vape? What's his name again?
"Gabe," the boy declared proudly, as if hearing Wesley's internal struggle. "I, Gabe, remember you, Janitor! Hahahahaha!"
He laughed with his whole chest, shoulders shaking, mouth wide, the sound bouncing off the empty stands like an insult.
Wesley squinted. Right. Gabe. The asshole who made fun of me last month. Didn't some girls try to stop him too? Said it wasn't funny…
Wesley exhaled through his nose and went back to mopping. "What the fuck is he saying…" he muttered under his breath, trying to ignore the boy's theatrical laughter.
He focused on the mop, sloshing it in arcs over a patch of dried blood. Gabe's laughter echoed behind him like a bad memory.
"Hey, Janitor!" Gabe yelled again. "Are you ignoring me?"
Wesley didn't respond. He just started humming to himself—a tune with no rhythm, just something to block the noise.
And then—clack.
A wooden sword slapped down across his mop handle, pinning it.
Wesley blinked, lifted his eyes. Gabe was standing there, eyes gleaming with that same arrogant grin.
"How about this, Janitor?" Gabe said. "Attack me. Prove you're the Spear of Heaven!"
Wesley frowned, the confusion evident on his face. "No way," he said immediately, stepping back like he'd just been offered poison. "You're strong. Fifth-stage Mana Knight, right? I'd be hurt."
Gabe scoffed, waving a hand. "I won't use Mana," he said nonchalantly. "And I'll give you one bronze coin for every hit you land."
Wesley froze, mop dripping. "Huh? Wait. What do you mean? If I hit or beat you… you're not gonna get mad and try to ruin my life or something?"
Gabe tilted his head and then—he laughed.
Not just any laugh. He roared. He clutched his stomach and bent over, the kind of laughter that felt excessive, almost like a mockery of the very idea.
"You—hahahahaha—you think—hah—you think you'll beat me?" He wheezed. "Defeat me? Hahahaha! That's—oh, that's rich! You hear that, Janitor thinks he'll beat me!"
Wesley scratched his head, now second-guessing everything.
"So… is that a yes?" he asked cautiously.
"Yes!" Gabe wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling. "It'll be fun watching you try. Come on. Let's see it."
Wesley sighed. "That's a fair deal, I guess… but, uh, are you sure you won't use Mana?"
Gabe waved him off again, as if it were beneath him to lie. "Yeah, yeah. I swear it. Come on already."
"Alright," Wesley said, shrugging. "Guess I'll use my mop then."
Gabe blinked. "Wait. What?"
"My mop," Wesley repeated. "I'm not used to swords. This is better for me."
He raised the mop, the dirty head of it dangling and dripping like a sad monster's tongue.
Gabe looked at it, visibly disgusted. "Seriously? That filthy thing?"
"Wel… if you insist," Wesley offered, "and you don't wanna be dirty, I can swap it out—"
"No," Gabe interrupted with a grin, eyes suddenly gleaming with the thrill of a new idea. "No. It'll be a greater challenge not to get dirtied by that disgusting thing. Yeah, that's it. I dare you to try."
Wesley narrowed his eyes. "Wait… you want to get hit by this mop?"
"No!" Gabe growled, now annoyed. "I want you to try. I won't get hit. I'm too good for that."
"…Right," Wesley muttered. Is this guy some kind of masochist?
"I heard that," Gabe snapped. "Hurry up!"
Wesley took a cautious step back. "Look, I just want to make sure this isn't, you know, one of those 'Young Master' situations," he said, waving his hands. "You lose, then your father hunt me, and if he cannot do it, you your grandfather will until he explodes a mountain or something. You sure you won't hunt me down?"
Gabe looked like he was about to explode from impatience. "Just attack me already!"
Wesley stood there for a moment, awkwardly clutching his mop, still unsure whether this was bravery or stupidity.
And then—
Ding!
A light blue system screen shimmered before his eyes.
Mission: Give the Masochist His Wish!
Objective: Land hits on Gabe without using Mana. Bonus reward if you soil his pristine uniform.
Reward: Unknown.
Accept Mission? [Yes] [No]
Wesley blinked and stare at the mission. "...Well. That looks new." He slowly hovered his mental cursor over Yes.
And with a slow exhale, he lifted his mop with both hands, sliding into a stance. It wasn't exactly elegant. It didn't look like any knight's battle-ready posture. But there was something… grounded about it. Balanced. Like a janitor who knew exactly how to swing at a stubborn stain without slipping.
Across the arena, Gabe scoffed and hurried. "Come on, Janitor!" he thought, expecting the Janitor to be slow. Gabe wasn't thinking much about him; he was just playing to relieve his stress.
Maybe if he did that, relieving his stress, he might gain enlightenment or clarity, he might advance to reach the Sixth Stage.
That's the whole purpose, to make fun of the Janitor.
On the other hand, Wesley didn't answer. Instead, he lunged.
The first strike was low, a sweeping arc aimed at Gabe's ankle. Gabe stepped aside easily, laughing again.
But Wesley didn't stop.
He twisted with the motion, bringing the mop up and around in a tight circle, aiming for Gabe's shoulder. Again, Gabe dodged—but not quite cleanly. The edge of the mop grazed his sleeve.
A wet smudge appeared on the pristine fabric.
Gabe paused. Looked at it. Then glared.
"Huh?"
Wesley smiled faintly. "Does that count?"
Gabe's expression twisted. "Sure…"
"Alright," and Wesley was moving again.
What followed wasn't graceful. It wasn't knightly. But it was relentless. The mop swung in wide arcs and unpredictable angles, dripping filth in its wake.
Wesley didn't move like a warrior. He moved like someone cleaning a mess aggressively—but every step was steady, every swing sharper than it should've been.
Gabe dodged, blocked, twisted—but his frustration grew.
The others—the eight cleaners who had just been defeated by Gabe earlier—gathered in stunned silence to the side.
They watched as the janitor darted and spun and swung like a man possessed, forcing the fifth-stage Mana Knight on the defensive.
Again and again, the mop found its mark: a splatter on the leg, a smack across the chest, a smear across the cheek.
Wesley grunted with effort. "Still think this is a joke?"
Gabe's face would show a challenging glow, "I didn't expect you could move like this, Janitor!"
"Are you thinking of using Mana now?" Wesley replied, jabbing forward with a sharp thrust of the mop's head.
Gabe dodged—barely—but slipped on a damp patch of floor.
He stumbled.
And Wesley flicked his mop—hard—right onto Gabe's forehead.
Smack.
A dirty, soggy thwop echoed across the arena.
There was a pause. A long, stunned pause.
Gabe's hair drooped with slime. A slow trickle of dirty water slid down his brow.
Wesley blinked. "...Oops."