Gabe froze mid-step, his body twitching slightly from the last blow.
"Again?" he muttered, still catching his breath.
Wesley's mop swung again—this time with more confidence—smacking the side of Gabe's torso.
The sound of wet cloth slapping against expensive training armor echoed in the courtyard.
Gabe blinked, not even registering pain, just… shock. He turned slowly, as if trying to make sense of the fact that he had been struck—again.
Wesley tilted his head, genuinely confused. "Are… you okay?"
But Gabe didn't answer. His eyes were wide. Then, before Wesley could react, Gabe suddenly shouted, "Again!"
Wesley, startled but no longer hesitant, obeyed.
The mop struck him once more, and Gabe stumbled slightly this time, clutching his side.
"Again!" he shouted, louder, as if driven by something deeper—rage, pride, or maybe madness.
The surrounding cleaners, the ones who had stood off to the side with expressions of quiet amusement or mild indifference, now began shifting. One of them muttered, "Wait a minute…"
Another whispered, "He's actually getting hit. Repeatedly."
Gabe shouted again. "Again!" Wesley did as told. Again and again. Each swing of the mop was a mix of controlled awkwardness and hidden precision.
He didn't know where this rhythm came from—it just flowed from muscle memory, guided by the imagined spear drills he practiced in secret after work.
His body moved not like a janitor's, but like a trained warrior, each strike was steady, each swing testing Gabe's reflexes.
And then something even stranger happened—cheering.
"Let's go, Janitor!"
"Give him another one!"
"Hit him in the gut next!"
Wesley blinked in surprise, heart thumping.
What was going on?
Why were they cheering for him?
These were the same people who ignored him, some even mocked him just the other day.
He dared a glance around.
The other cleaners had now formed a loose circle around them, their expressions ranging from awe to giddy excitement. Some clapped, some laughed, and one even whistled after a particularly solid hit.
"What the…?" Wesley muttered under his breath. But he didn't stop.
Neither did Gabe.
Despite taking hit after hit, Gabe's grin only widened. But slowly, he began defending.
At first, he was sluggish—his footwork clumsy, his balance off—but then, he began reacting faster, raising his wooden sword, blocking, deflecting.
Wesley noticed the change immediately.
"Oh?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "You're not just taking it anymore, huh?"
Gabe didn't reply. He grunted as he parried another mop strike. Wesley grinned—he was having fun. "Fine then," he muttered. "If you're defending now… I won't hold back."
The pace quickened.
The mop whistled through the air, slamming down, slicing sideways, flicking upward with deceptive force.
Wet blotches began appearing on Gabe's armor, his sleeves, even the hem of his tunic.
The reddish tinge of old blood from the mop stained the noble's once-pristine whites and golds, and streaks of grime added insult to injury.
The crowd gasped as one strike landed on Gabe's shoulder, then another on his thigh.
"Janitor!" "Janitor!" "Janitor!"
Earlier, they were thrashed and beaten up despite Gabe only defending himself, and most of all, they were all humiliated. Now that they see him being hit repeatedly, they all feel good.
Gabe would stare at them.
They would halt, scared while looking at Gabe.
They understood what a noble of the city could do to ordinary people like them, so they had no choice but to shut up.
Not long, after a few intense clashes—Clang—Clang—Clang—Clang!
Gabe stumbled back, panting heavily, his chest heaving so deeply.
Wesley lowered the mop. "You tired?" he asked, almost genuinely concerned. "Should I… stop? Or do you want to take a break for a while?"
Gabe held up a hand, wheezing. "Janitor…" He sucked in a deep breath. "You… are unbelievable. How did you train?"
Wesley blinked, unsure how to respond to the question.
"Is it the 'I am Wesley Grimes,' the heavenly immortal of the Immortal Spear Heaven sect?"
Wesley was speechless. He didn't answer and simply nodded awkwardly.
Gabe continued, enthusiasm dripping from every word despite his ragged breathing. "Haha! I'm right!" he exclaimed, then added, "It's such a pity you can't use mana. But your spear skills… I couldn't even block half of them."
Wesley would scratch his head. Did this bastard really need to be reminded of that? But he wouldn't feel offended, because he could now use Mana, so it didn't matter anymore. He just stood there and said, "Yeah… it's a pity…"
Suddenly, Gabe stopped his panting and straightened his posture, brushed some of the grime off his arm, and laughed. "Alright! No need to worry. A deal's a deal. I said I'd pay for every hit, right? Ten silver coins!"
Wesley's eyes widened. "Ten…? That's too much!"
He thought about the small pouch of coins hidden under the floorboards of his closet—his life's savings, really. Maybe a few hundred coppers and a single silver he earned from one week of long missions from the system.
But now… Ten silver from one spar? That was…
"I thought you were just some arrogant noble brat," Wesley admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly… you kinda are. So what changed?"
Gabe scratched the back of his own head, smearing some dirt across his golden hair. "Hah. Maybe I was jealous. You got attention from the girls when I didn't. And you were always so silly to look at your heavenly spear immortal role playing. I figured you were just weird." He grinned sheepishly. "Didn't expect you to be skilled. You kept training and training behind the scenes, didn't you?"
Wesley felt the heat rise to his cheeks. "I mean… yeah, maybe."
Truth be told, he didn't even know it was considered training. He was just role-playing—not to prove something to others, to himself, or to a world that kept pushing him to the background. Or maybe he just liked the rhythm, the immortal dream, the silent hope that one day… one day he'd be more than just a janitor.
"Again!" Gabe suddenly shouted, the brightness back in his eyes. "If you land fifty more hits, I'll pay you another ten silver!"
Wesley's jaw dropped. He forgot that this guy is a masochist. But he wanted to make sure of something. "Are you serious? Don't you care what your father or mother might say about your spending?"
Gabe puffed out his chest dramatically. "As a noble of this small city, a hundred silver is nothing to me!" He struck a ridiculous pose that made a few cleaners laugh out loud.
Wesley frowned. "That's just… not fair." He glanced at his stained mop, then back at Gabe. "How can someone just… be that rich?"
But the envy passed quickly. There was something cathartic in the moment. He'd just humiliated a noble without breaking the rules, earned praise from his peers, and was now being offered another chance to earn more.
It didn't matter if Gabe was insane or rich or both or a masochist. What mattered was that Wesley had been invisible… and now people were seeing him.
And better yet, they were cheering.
Wesley lowered his stance again. His hands tightened around the mop's shaft. It was heavier now, soaked through with effort and grime and blood—his weapon, his pride, his proof.
Gabe grinned, teeth gleaming through the dirt and sweat. "Come on, Janitor! Give me all you got!"
Wesley smiled.
He would.