To old man Greg, this little bastard was just messing around.
Who the hell wants to clean more rooms for free?
Nobody with a working mind asked for more work in a place like this. Cleaning was punishment disguised as maintenance, and Wesley was treating it like a privilege.
Something was off.
He squinted at the kid, half tempted to think the boy had finally lost it from the boredom of cleaning enchanted ink stains off classroom floors.
"Get out of my face, kid," Greg snapped, waving a hand without even looking at him. "Go mop the walls or lick the windows for all I care."
But Wesley didn't move.
Instead, he stood a little straighter, eyes gleaming, like someone who just stepped out of a divine dream. "Sir Greg, I had a vision."
Greg groaned audibly. "Of course you did."
"I was surrounded by flame. Not regular flame, but immortal fire. Wolves, burning wolves, they lunged at me. Their fangs—made of pure heat. Their howls, ancient. But I held them back. With my Heavenly Spear."
Greg finally turned his head, deadpan. "Your mop?"
Wesley nodded seriously. "Yes. In the dream, it became a spear. I fought them in a desolate realm of ash and lightning, and I won. After the battle, all the flames turned into polished floors. The wolves? They became desks. The lava storm transformed into glimmering windowpanes. And the world collapsed… into a classroom."
"You fought immortal fire wolves, and they turned into desks."
"Yes."
Greg rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Kid, if you start hearing the desks talk back, I'm reporting you to the mental healers."
But Wesley pressed forward. "I realized something. That dream—it wasn't just a dream. It was inspiration. A divine revelation from the System. A path. I was meant to clean. Not just a few rooms. All the rooms. Each floor I mop is like a beast I conquer. Each stain, a trial. Sir Greg, this is my cultivation path."
Greg muttered under his breath, "Path of the Imbecile."
"I want more rooms." Wesley's eyes were burning. "I need more rooms."
Greg leaned back in his squeaky wooden chair. "You're just bored."
"I'm committed."
"You're a lunatic."
"I'm destined."
"Get out."
Wesley took a step forward. "There's something inside me that burns when I clean. I can't explain it, but it feels like… like I'm not just scrubbing. I'm evolving. Every day, I can feel my hands grow more steady. My movements more precise. My perception sharper. If I stop now, it'll be like cutting off my own legs."
Greg glared. "You're still just mopping."
"But what if I'm mopping toward enlightenment?"
Greg almost choked on his own breath. "Enlightenment? Are you trying to become the Saint of Sanitation?"
"Maybe!" Wesley's face was alight with strange fervor. "Maybe my fate was always to tread the path of the Cleaning Cultivator."
Greg slammed a hand down on the desk. "You know how many lunatics I've seen in my life? One too many. Now you're telling me you were sent here by the Heavens to wax floors and scrub toilets?"
Wesley's face became solemn. "Yes. And I need more toilets, Sir."
Greg pinched the bridge of his nose again, but this time with both fingers. "Alright, alright. You've worn down my patience, and I fought in the East Hellfire Campaign for eight years straight without losing it. You're worse than cursed mosquitoes."
Wesley perked up. "So I can have more rooms?"
Greg stood, joints creaking, looking every bit the weathered, retired knight he was—sleeves rolled up, clothes soft and threadbare, a reminder of the armor they were once worn under. He cracked his neck and turned toward the ancient dusty filing cabinet in the back.
"You wanna clean more?" he muttered, rummaging through scrolls. "Fine. Let's see… Not the Magic Archives. You'll die in there."
Wesley flinched slightly.
"Not the Rune Labs. Burned the last cleaner's eyebrows."
"Uh—"
"Not the Potion Chambers. Unless you like acid fog."
"…No thank you."
"Alright, then. How about the Knight Arenas?" Greg turned around with a crooked grin, displaying his yellowed teeth in full. "Big spaces. Filled with broken swords, shattered mana circuits, and a lot of dirt. You'll get your wish and more."
Wesley blinked. "Arenas?"
Greg nodded. "We've got five of them in this building alone. The Sand Pit, the Trial Dome, the Obsidian Yard, the Echo Hall, and good old Knight Arena Four—no fancy name, just plenty of dust. You'll help the other cleaners. You'll scrub the dried blood off the practice grounds, haul out broken training puppets, polish the knight statues. Sound fun?"
Wesley's face lit up. "It sounds perfect."
Greg raised an eyebrow. "You're serious."
"I'm ready."
"Hold your horses, bright boy," Greg raised a finger. "What stage are you at again? Mage or Knight?"
Wesley hesitated. "Uh. Not yet at stage one."
Greg narrowed his eyes. "So still a normal."
Wesley scratched his cheek. "Yeah."
Greg sighed. "Well, technically, you can go. There's no barrier preventing normals from entering. Those arenas are safe enough if you're not stupid. Just avoid the broken runes and don't piss off any trainees."
Wesley nodded. "Understood."
But Greg didn't answer immediately. He leaned forward, really studying the boy for the first time. Something tickled the back of his mind. A faint prickle.
Was that… mana?
He frowned.
No, impossible.
This kid was declared mana-deficient, the kind that didn't even have a whiff of mana signature.
That's why he was thrown here, in the backwater Royal Azure City, exiled from any real hope of magical advancement.
But still… he felt something. It was faint. Like a flicker of candlelight behind a mountain.
"Huh?" Greg murmured.
Wesley had already turned, excitement propelling his feet as he bolted out the room, ready to begin cleaning what, to him, was nothing less than a new battlefield.
Greg sat there, staring at the open door, brow furrowed. "Was that mana?"
He shook his head, standing slowly. "Nah… must be my old brain leaking."
But doubt lingered.
He rubbed the stumps where his arms used to be. "Still… if it was mana, and someone finds out I sent him into an arena, I might get executed for negligence."
He began pacing, mumbling aloud to himself as he always did when something bugged him.
"They said he was born dry. No affinity, no spark. That's why his family threw him out like a broken dagger. But if he's got even a drop of mana now… how? Some freak awakening? Maybe a delayed reaction? Or maybe... something else?"
He frowned deeper. "That boy's name… he bears the Grime family's mark. That crest. Abandoned or not, the blood's still there."
Greg moved to sit back down, his bones groaning with age. "Should I check him? Drag him into the diagnostic chamber? Might be nothing. But it might not."
His eyes drifted toward the doorway again.
"Nah. Let the boy clean." He leaned back with a tired grunt. "If he's serious about this mop-wielding path of enlightenment, then let him find out how dirty the world really is. He'll be back later for sure. Once he's here, I will check if he's got mana."
And with that, Greg chuckled to himself, reaching for his tea, steam curling into the air like memories he didn't want to revisit.
"Saint of Sanitation my ass," he muttered with a smirk. "What a lunatic."