The clash echoed through the training arena again—and again.
Gabe lunged. Wesley darted forward.
The mop struck the sword.
The sword deflected the mop.
Sparks flew—imaginary or not, the crowd around them gasped with every blow.
They moved like a dance, fast and fluid, trading places so frequently that no one could remember who started on which side.
The scuffed flagstones bore the brunt of their footwork, a blur of heavy boots and sweeping steps, of grunts and panting and raw, growing exhilaration.
Once, Gabe's back was to the sun.
Then Wesley spun, and in the next second, the angle flipped, and it was Gabe squinting into the light.
Again and again they rotated across the courtyard's center, circling each other with primal rhythm.
A cheer rang out. Then another.
Even the more jaded cleaners, who had started the day by being beaten, thought that this young Janitor would face the same fate as them—going to get thrashed by Gabe eventually, now leaned forward, breathless and awestruck.
But something else was happening.
Unseen.
Wesley felt it in his core—a familiar warmth, a subtle hum beneath his skin.
It called to him, whispered possibilities in the gaps between strikes.
The mana he wasn't supposed to have.
The mana he hadn't trained.
The mana that came from the system missions.
He allowed a thread—just the thinnest sliver—to flow into his arms.
The mop responded instantly, slicing faster, striking sharper.
Just a little. Just enough to enhance, not to be obvious. A nudge, not a blast.
No one would notice.
Wesley hoped.
Especially not Gabe.
Except Gabe did notice something.
He was getting hit more. The mop was moving quicker. The angles were tighter.
At first, he thought it was just fatigue, that Wesley had simply adapted and was reading his movements better. But no—it wasn't that. It was something more.
Could he be cheating? Gabe thought, the idea both insulting and—honestly—impressive.
But no. Surely not. This was just… adrenaline, right?
Still, just in case…
He let a tiny pulse of mana trickle down his forearms and into the wooden sword.
The blade shimmered—barely, subtly, not enough for a trained mage to notice, but enough to give his muscles a fraction more speed, his reactions a fraction more edge.
Wesley felt it instantly.
The defense—toughened. Gabe blocked three hits in a row that should've landed. Wesley narrowed his eyes.
Something had shifted.
Gabe was now moving smoother, like the stiffness in his shoulders had vanished. His blocks were cleaner. His footing—tighter.
Wesley exhaled slowly and let more mana flow. Just a bit. Just enough to match.
He darted left. Gabe parried. He swept the mop low—Gabe jumped. He feinted right, then struck from above—Gabe raised the blade, deflected it, and stepped back.
Then they rotated again.
The crowd howled. Dust rose in a wide arc around them.
The cleaners who had once scoffed at Wesley were now on their feet, fists clenched, mouths open.
They roared with every near-hit and cheered with every impressive parry.
Some of the cleaners Gabe had beaten senseless earlier were now at the front, whistling, laughing, and shouting out encouragement—to both fighters.
One side was supporting Gabe and one side was supporting Wesley.
"Block that, Young Lord!"
"Come on, Janitor! Swing higher!"
"He's getting tired—hit him now!"
"Deflect it, Gabe! Don't let the mop guy win!"
Wesley's lungs burned, but he didn't stop. His arms ached, but he gritted his teeth and poured in more of that forbidden mana. It sang in his bones now, laced through his tendons, turning every strike into a forceful blur.
And Gabe—he was panicking.
Despite his added mana, despite his noble lineage, formal training, expensive equipment—he was getting breached.
That mop—that mop!—was slipping past his guard again and again. His knuckles were red from the vibration of blocked hits. His thighs burned from glancing strikes. His jaw throbbed from a close brush with the mop's tip that had rung his teeth.
How? he thought, teeth clenched. How is this janitor doing this? I'm using mana! He's just—
He paused mid-thought. No. That speed. That power. That can't just be technique.
Is he…?
No.
No way.
Still—just in case—he pushed harder. Mana flooded his core and raced through his limbs. He knew it was risky, but his pride demanded it. He couldn't—wouldn't—lose to someone who cleaned up vomit from the infirmary floor and scrubbed chamber pots behind the dormitories.
So he reinforced his body, hardened his muscles, sped up his limbs. The wooden blade gleamed faintly with suppressed energy.
And Wesley noticed.
Not with his eyes—but with his gut.
The defense grew denser. Gabe was now responding before the mop arrived. Wesley's strikes slowed—not because his muscles failed him, but because the resistance from each clash was stronger. He realized Gabe had made the same decision he had.
We're both cheating, Wesley thought.
But neither of them said a word.
The duel reached new intensity.
Gabe was all defense now, his blade snapping up, down, side to side, deflecting with rapid-fire precision.
Wesley moved like a blur, twisting, weaving, using the mop as though it were a natural extension of his soul.
The court echoed with rhythmic cracks.
Clack. Whap. Thwack. Slam. Thud. Whack!
They danced at the center of the arena, switching sides with every turn. Their feet scraped the stone in perfect time, bodies drenched in sweat, eyes locked in fierce concentration.
The mop struck the sword.
The sword struck the mop.
Neither broke.
But Wesley wasn't slowing.
If anything, he was accelerating. The mana now fully coursed through his body, no longer subtle but carefully concealed. His movements were honed to perfection—he'd landed more than forty clean hits by now.
Gabe, still struggling to keep up, was beyond amazed. This human—this mop-wielding, low-born servant—was a monster. He was cheating, yes, but even with mana-enhanced defense, Gabe couldn't predict where the mop would strike next.
The angles kept changing. High to low. Wide to narrow. It was like fighting a ghost wielding a tornado.
Worse, the crowd was still watching. Still cheering.
But now, Gabe wasn't sure if they were cheering because the fight was awesome…
Or because they wanted to see him lose.
A deep frustration swelled inside him.
No. I won't let him hit fifty. I won't!
Earlier, he was lying to Wesley.
Gabe was just confident that Wesley won't be successful next because he is now accustomed to his spearmanship, but he didn't expect to feel threatened by him.
He blocked. Stepped back. Blocked again.
Wesley came on like a storm. Spin, sweep, jab, feint, swing.
Gabe gritted his teeth. Thirty-five hits. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven—
Wesley's expression was grim now, focused. His jaw clenched, brow furrowed, body poised like a coiled spring. His muscles screamed. His bones ached. But his soul felt alive.
Forty-one.
Forty-two.
The next strike hit Gabe in the shoulder. Then another scraped his thigh. Forty-four.
He heard the crowd screaming but couldn't tell if it was for him or against him anymore.
Forty-six.
Forty-seven.
A blur. A parry. A slip. Forty-eight.
Gabe's arm went numb. Forty-nine.
And then—
Creak.
The arena fell silent in an instant.
Craaaaaack!
With a sickening snap, the mop—Wesley's battered, splintered, loyal companion—split in two.
The soaked wooden head flung off with a twist, spinning through the air and landing somewhere behind Gabe with a wet slap.
The broken shaft dangled from Wesley's trembling hands.
He stood still.
Frozen.
Panting.
So close.
Just one more hit.