Wesley and Gabe stared at the shattered mop handle between them.
A beat of silence passed.
No cheers now, just the sound of both boys breathing hard—one from defending with his life, the other from launching nearly fifty consecutive attacks that pushed him beyond human limits.
Then Gabe finally broke the silence. "Go take another mop."
Wesley glanced at the jagged splinters of wood in his hand, then shook his head, chest rising and falling. "No."
Gabe's brows furrowed. "No?"
Wesley looked at him, eyes burning with something deeper than pride. "I mean… Let's go again!"
In front of him, invisible to all but him alone, a window flickered open.
Ding!
Mission: Give the Masochist His Wish!
Objective: Land hits on Gabe without using Mana. Bonus reward if you soil his pristine uniform.
Reward: Unknown.
Status: Completed.
Reward received: The host's Mana will not be sensed by One, Two, or Three-Star Mana Users.
For a moment, Wesley just stood there, mouth slightly ajar. Then the realization hit him like lightning.
No one below a four-star could sense him.
No one in the entire Royal Azure Academy except perhaps the headmaster himself could detect his mana now.
That meant he could fight freely.
Train freely.
Experiment, without scrutiny.
Without risk.
Not a single instructor, student, or spy could sense his growing power unless they were monsters on the level of the academy's peak.
It felt like someone had just given him the keys to a kingdom.
So yes—Wesley accepted another fight against Gabe.
Why wouldn't he?
Gabe, still catching his breath, let out a short laugh and turned toward the crowd of stunned cleaners around the arena's perimeter. "Someone get him a new mop!"
One of the janitors—older than Wesley, with wiry arms and a crooked grin—stood up, walked over, and slapped a replacement mop into Wesley's hands. "Good luck," he said, smirking. "Beat his ass."
Gabe blinked. "What the hell did he just say?"
Wesley didn't bother answering. He adjusted the grip on his new mop, took one step forward, and said, "Let's go."
Gabe snapped his attention back, eyes narrowing. "Let's go!"
But before either could move, Wesley allowed the faintest ripple of his mana to stir—just a test, a pulse like wind brushing over water. He needed to be sure.
Gabe stiffened, his brows furrowing. His instincts screamed danger.
It was like staring down a beast, something primal and towering.
An oppressive pressure hung in the air around Wesley like thunderclouds ready to split. His pupils narrowed, his fingers tightened over his sword—
But he sensed… nothing.
No aura. No mana signature. No surge of magical pressure. Just raw, inexplicable intimidation.
Gabe shook his head rapidly, trying to clear it. "No way…" he muttered. "There's no mana. I'd feel it. I should feel it."
And that's when Wesley smiled.
A loud, wide, confident smile.
A grin that bared teeth and showed all his intentions.
No more hiding. No more masking.
The academy couldn't see him now. He could unleash everything—no restraints, no shackles. He had passed Gabe's test. He had crushed it.
Now he was going to show him.
Wesley exhaled and released his Mana Knight Stage One aura.
The ground under his feet cracked in a spiderweb.
Dust fluttered up from his soles. His muscles flexed, his posture straightened, and golden-blue wisps of mana shimmered faintly—beautifully—only to vanish the moment they appeared, as if the world itself blinked and missed them.
But Gabe felt it.
The hairs on his arms stood up. His throat tightened. Something was wrong. Something was—off.
This wasn't the same Janitor from earlier.
His instincts screamed: Danger.
And it felt so strong.
He readied his sword just in time.
Wesley vanished.
He reappeared on Gabe's left, swinging the mop down with a loud snap. Gabe blocked it—but staggered.
The force was leagues stronger than before.
He spun, adjusting his stance, but Wesley was already at his side again—again—again. He was fast.
Too fast.
Even as a trained knight since young, Gabe could barely keep up.
Each impact pushed him further and further back.
The mop slammed against his sword, his shoulders, his legs. The pressure was building again—oppressive, suffocating.
"You're holding back, Gabe?" Wesley shouted mid-swing, voice laced with scorn. "I thought you wanted to feel something!"
Bang!
Clash!
Bang!
Blow after blow rained down. Gabe's arms trembled from blocking. His boots dragged across the ground, leaving marks behind him.
Every time he parried, Wesley's mop came in again from another direction, relentless like the tide.
And Wesley wasn't even going all out.
The Mana Knight aura roared around him, silent to the world, but overwhelming in power.
His strikes weren't just physical anymore—they carried weight. His steps shattered tiles, his presence dominated the ring. He was on a warpath.
Meanwhile, Gabe was panicking.
He was using mana now. Just a trickle at first—something to boost his reaction time, his reflexes. Something to harden his limbs, to reinforce his muscles.
But it wasn't enough.
Even with the mana, Wesley was breaching his guard. His body ached, his ribs throbbed, and for the first time in a very long while, Gabe felt like he was actually going to lose.
How?
How?!
He was a trained warrior.
A knight prodigy.
A noble.
He had been groomed in the art of war since childhood.
This janitor—this mop-wielding commoner—was fighting like a beast unleashed from chains.
So Gabe began cheating harder.
He increased his mana output, subtly. His eyes glowed faintly, barely perceptible. His movements sped up, his defense solidified. He weaved his stance tighter, grounding himself better.
Wesley noticed.
And smiled wider.
So Gabe didn't know. He couldn't see it. He couldn't sense it. That meant—
Wesley exploded into full action.
No more subtlety. No more holding back. He infused mana into his muscles, his grip, his very heartbeat. It pulsed through his veins like fire and thunder.
He was shouting now, loud and free, with every swing:
"One!"
Bang!
"Two!"
Clash!
"Three!"
Thud!
The crowd went wild. The cleaners around the arena were howling, half in shock, half in delight.
"Let's go, Wesley!"
"Dodge left, mop boy!"
"Spank that noble!"
Even those who had been humiliated by Gabe before were now cheering, unable to help themselves. The fight was just too intense, too primal, too satisfying.
But Gabe wasn't enjoying it.
He was gritting his teeth. Frustration burned behind his eyes. His sword trembled in his hands. The edge of his control was slipping. And worse—he was being manipulated.
He could feel it.
He wasn't leading this fight anymore.
Wesley was.
Bang!
"Forty-six!"
Clash!
"Forty-seven!"
Gabe's stance buckled.
"Forty-eight!"
His sword faltered.
"Forty-nine!"
The world slowed down.
Wesley's mop was already swinging, the final blow descending with righteous, overwhelming force—
Snap!
The mop splintered into two halves. The head of the weapon clattered to the ground, spinning away.
The stick end pointed straight at Gabe's throat.
"Fifty," Wesley said coolly. "That's another ten silvers."
Gabe froze.
He stood there, sweat glistening on his forehead, chest heaving. But his expression wasn't furious. Not exactly. It was tight. Pained.
He was still a kid underneath it all.
A proud, battle-hardened kid who had been shown up. Who had been bested in front of everyone. Who had given someone a challenge and received more than he ever anticipated.
Wesley's brow furrowed.
He stepped back, suddenly uncertain. Had he gone too far? Had he broken something in Gabe he wasn't supposed to?
Then—
Boom.
Mana surged.
A shockwave burst out from Gabe's body. Not an attack—no. Just pure, uncontrolled pressure.
A trembling, glowing haze of raw magical energy that lit up the arena like a second sunrise.
Wesley stepped back instinctively. So did the cleaners. Every single person in the crowd drew back as the mana surged.
Gabe's eyes were wide. His mouth slightly open. He wasn't moving, wasn't speaking—just existing as more and more mana spilled out of him.
Wisps of blue.
Then gold.
Then violet.
And still it came, more and more, pouring from every pore, crackling and swirling around him like a storm.
"What the hell…?" Wesley muttered.
Gabe didn't move.
The pressure was rising. His uniform fluttered in the invisible wind. His boots lifted just slightly off the ground as his aura bloomed to life, layer by layer.
For the first time in years, even Gabe was afraid of himself.
And finally—finally, it stopped.
Gabe landed back on his feet. His limbs shook. His expression twisted from awe to bewilderment.
And then he shouted—voice cracking, half-laughing, half-terrified.
"Holy macaroni!"