"Formation: Moon-Crescent Flow!" Wesley shouted, mop raised high like a battle standard. "Engage!"
The cleaners stared at him for a beat.
Then chuckled.
One of the older ones, scrubbing a stubborn gri patch, leaned back and laughed. "He thinks this is so sort of a war but his naming the attacks is weird though."
Another cleaner, arms already deep in sudsy water, smirked. "Doesnt matter, he looks like he’s really going all in."
But Wesley wasn’t deterred.
In his mind, they weren’t janitors anymore—they were modern immortal cultivators clad in sleek armor, sleek spirit robes lined with glowing cores of mana.
Their mops were now spirit halberds, their buckets floating spell cauldrons brimming with cleansing Qi.
The arena stretched out like a battlefield, dim with mist, and at each of the 47 designated stain zones, ancient spirit warriors stood frozen in defiance—clad in crumbling robes of forgotten dynasties, long-bearded and clutching cracked celestial weapons.
The enemy looked intimidating.
His squad looked impossibly cool.
He exhaled slowly, as if preparing for a spiritual war.
"Charge!" he shouted.
And they moved.
At first, he prepared himself for disappointnt.
After all, most of these cleaners were ordinary people.
They didn’t have mana.
They weren’t part of so grand system like he was.
They weren’t blessed by golden fingers or guided by hidden ga chanics.
Surely, they’d be slow.
Right?
Right...?
Wrong.
So, so wrong.
The instant they moved, Wesley felt his brain short-circuit.
He watched, stunned, as the group exploded into coordinated motion.
They weren’t just fast—they were absurd.
One woman did a sliding sweep across the polished stone, back straight, arms pumping, dustpan snapping like a crocodile’s jaws.
Another man zipped up a pillar with a mop in hand, hanging upside down as he polished the ceiling like so sort of gravity-defying spider monk.
One, two, three spots are gone.
Already.
Wesley’s mop wobbled in his hand.
"What the..." he breathed.
Zane, the skeletal cleaner, had already completed six spots by himself, each motion smoother than the last.
Not a drop of water spilled, not a single rag wasted.
His hands moved like twin shadows, and Wesley swore he could hear wind slicing through the air with every mop stroke.
"This... is insane."
A blur to his right—soone had leapt between two crates, cleaning both sides of a wall midair.
Another blur to his left—three stains gone in one sweep.
"Am I hallucinating? Is this even legal?" Wesley whispered, eyes wide.
He stumbled back from the sheer speed of it. His mop trembled in his hands as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing.
They weren’t just good—they were goddamn supernatural. The arena echoed not with laughter or banter, but with the harmonious rhythm of elite cleaners dancing on the battlefield.
And then soone cleared their throat beside him.
Wesley turned his head—and Instructor Heiron stood at his side, arms crossed, a small amused smile on his face.
"You the new guy? Wesley, right?" Heiron asked, gaze still fixed ahead.
Wesley blinked, still dazed. "Uh. Yes. Wesley."
Heiron tilted his head. "Flabbergasted at how fast they clean?"
Wesley just nodded.
The instructor let out a soft chuckle. "Ah. No wonder."
Wesley whipped his head to him. "No wonder? What do you an?"
Heiron leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing an old secret. "They’re not just cleaners."
Wesley’s eyebrows lifted.
The instructor smiled, eyes glinting. "Most of them? Trained knights. A few? Forr academy students. Dropouts, mostly. Failed exams, expelled for reasons too complicated to summarize. A couple were considered geniuses. But, well, the world has strange ways of forgetting people."
Wesley’s gaze snapped back to the blur of bodies working with terrifying precision. "They clean like assassins," he whispered.
"They fight like them too," Heiron replied.
Wesley swallowed hard.
The instructor went on, tone even, almost nostalgic. "See the woman over there? She was once on track to beco the top spear knight of our Academy. Injured her mana core during a dungeon trial—got reassigned. That bald guy polishing the gate? Ex-Commander of the Northern Watch. Lost his right arm, learned to mop with his left. Zane? He was once a triple-blade user. Only survived a raid by sheer ntal discipline."
Wesley’s mouth had gone dry. "So... they really are warriors."
"In another life, yes," Heiron said quietly. "Now? They are now reduced to this state"
Wesley looked down at his mop, then back at the group slicing through gri like they were carving fate itself.
"Really?" he said weakly.
Heiron nodded. "Really."
Wesley paused. "Then how co they lost to Gabe earlier in that sparring match?"
Instructor Heiron’s smile turned wry, and he looked out at the cleaning warriors like a father watching unruly kids play house. "I told them to."
Wesley blinked. "Wait, what?"
"They could’ve overwheld Gabe," Heiron said matter-of-factly. "But I asked them to lose."
"Why?" Wesley asked, now completely floored.
Heiron sighed, his expression suddenly heavy with sothing unspoken. "Gabe... cos from a family famous for their defensive knight techniques. But due to... internal conflict between Gabe and his clan, he refused to learn them. Instead, he insisted on studying under . His family wasn’t pleased."
Wesley was hanging on every word now.
"I wanted to help him," Heiron went on. "But I also wanted him to understand his weakness. To see what he was missing. So I let those janitors, those cleaners—those forr warriors—be defeated if they ever crossed paths against him... subtly. Not enough to humiliate, but enough to frustrate."
Wesley nodded slowly, understanding beginning to settle in.
"I hoped it would push him back toward his roots," Heiron said. "Toward his family’s style."
"But well... Gabe is as stubborn as his family claid and still clung to to learn defensive stances. And I don’t know what to do now."
Wesley rubbed the back of his neck, feeling more exposed than ever. "I didn’t an to..."
Heiron chuckled. "Relax. You’ve done well. Better than most."
Wesley exhaled slowly, then glanced once more at the cleaners.
Better than most? That sounds like it has a double aning.
They were nearly done. Stains that had resisted years of student duels, blood, ash, and enchanted fla had been wiped clean in minutes.
Wesley looked back at Heiron, a hesitant smile creeping onto his face.
"So... I’m not in trouble?" he asked.
Instructor Heiron chuckled again and shook his head. "No, Wesley."
Then he leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping again.
"But you might be in sothing."
Wesley froze.
A cold sweat rolled down his back.
He didn’t know what Heiron ant exactly. But whatever it was... he had a feeling he’d already stepped far too deep into it.
Far too deep to turn back now.
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