Wesley lingered near the wall, clutching the half-broken mop like it was both a shield and a burden. The air inside the arena had shifted again—no longer loud with jokes and teasing, but not yet quiet. There was tension beneath the surface, like something unspoken waiting to settle.
He kept glancing around. The mission panel—the phantom box only he could see—still hadn't reappeared. His brows furrowed.
Why isn't there a mission popping up? he wondered, confused. Is it because there are too many people here? Instructor Heiron and his students clearly plan to use this arena. Maybe I should just head to another area…
He began to turn, slow and cautious, planning to find a quieter corner to clean. But the moment his foot shifted from the edge of the mat—
"Cleaners. Stay put."
Instructor Heiron's voice cut through the air like a spell. Calm. Inevitable.
Wesley froze in mid-step. The other cleaners looked up from their idle chatter, standing straighter again. Wesley turned back, halfway raising his hand in a polite gesture.
"Sir," he said hesitantly, "may I—uh—I was just going to switch cleaning sectors. I mean… I can't clean here properly right now." He lifted his mop, holding the broken, splintered shaft with both hands. "And, uh… this is broken. From the earlier spar."
Heiron's eyes fell on the mop. He walked forward, stopping just in front of Wesley.
"Bring it here."
Wesley blinked. "Sir?"
"Your mop. Bring it here."
Wesley stepped forward, his grip awkward, as if unsure whether he was about to get reprimanded or simply receive a replacement tool. He held the mop out like a sword surrendered in defeat.
Then, Heiron reached behind his belt and pulled out a wand.
It was elegantly carved from vine-wrapped rosewood, runes etched in a language no cleaner knew. The tip shimmered with a quiet pulse of green light, subtle but alive. Heiron muttered something under his breath—a chant that sounded like wind weaving through leaves—and the wand glowed brighter.
A green aura shimmered around the wand's tip, then shot out in a sudden arc, lashing like silk toward the broken mop.
Wesley staggered back. The mop, still in his hands, trembled violently. He felt the wood twitch, then pulse. The splintered edge at the break lifted, as though pulled by unseen threads. His fingers released on instinct.
The mop hovered.
Gasps echoed through the arena as the other cleaners leaned forward, jaws slack. The splintered end of the mop floated upward, strands of green magic dancing around it like living vines. A luminous plant tendril snaked through the break, curling with grace and precision, binding the severed wood.
Wesley watched, mouth agape, as the mop straightened. Slowly. Almost ceremoniously.
The wood smoothed out before his eyes, the cracks closing, the splinters retracting like rewinding time. The shaft was not only repaired—it was restored. It looked newer. Stronger. The dull hue of old pine now gleamed with a soft, honeyed gloss, the grain pronounced like veins of mana in crystal.
The mop head, too, pulsed briefly, then fluffed with sudden freshness, like moss rejuvenated by rain.
Wesley's heart pounded. He couldn't breathe.
The mop lowered itself into his outstretched hands with a soft thump. His fingers curled around it slowly, reverently. He stared at it like a sacred relic.
The other cleaners erupted into a storm of awe and noise.
"That was Plant Magic!"
"Did you see it? It glowed!"
"He healed a mop!"
"I thought Plant Mages could only grow vines!"
"I didn't know they could fix wood!"
"It's not just fixed—it looks better than when it was new!"
Wesley stared, still speechless. He turned the mop in his hand, admiring its new balance. It felt almost weightless, like a natural extension of his arm.
Meanwhile, the students behind Heiron didn't so much as flinch. Their expressions remained neutral, unmoved. To them, this was ordinary. Common. As if watching an instructor fix a tool with magic was no more shocking than watching a candle being lit.
Instructor Heiron finally spoke. "You'll stay. All of you. This arena will be a mess after today."
Wesley nodded without a word. After that display, it would've felt downright disrespectful to walk away. Besides, his mop… it was renewed. He was renewed.
Then, Heiron turned to his students.
"Listen up," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "You made several mistakes in the dungeon."
The students stood straighter. The teasing vanished. Their faces became blank slates, waiting to be filled with criticism.
Heiron began pacing.
"You underestimated the enemy. You treated the dungeon as if it were an extension of the academy's training halls. But it is not. It is alive. It adapts. And its creatures, no matter how small, are lethal."
He looked at one of the boys. "You laughed when you saw a Magical Mouse. You joked it would make a good pet. You let your guard down."
He turned to a girl. "You dismissed the Scorch Beetle because it was palm-sized. Then it ignited your sleeve."
Another. "You assumed that because the Echo Roach doesn't bite, it wasn't a threat. But it did call others. It brought six more, and you were almost buried alive."
He walked down the line slowly. "There were Arcane Gnats. Lightning Crickets. Illusion Caterpillars. Mana-draining Lice. Not a single one of these creatures was taller than your boot—and yet they overwhelmed you."
A heavy silence settled.
"You focus too much on size. On theatrics. You forget that magical creatures do not play fair. They sting. They swarm. They set traps. If one of you had fallen behind…"
He didn't finish the sentence.
"Low-tier dungeons are not jokes. They are not safe. The smallest mistake becomes a scar. The smallest scar becomes a weakness. And weakness, in battle, is an invitation to die."
He paused.
"You ran into battle assuming your training would carry you through. It didn't. You should have studied dungeon patterns. Memorized the behavior of pests. Used mana scans before every turn. Grouped up better. Watched the walls. Trusted your instincts."
He snapped his fingers.
"You should have designated a leader."
His voice grew colder.
"Instead, you argued over strategy mid-battle. You bickered. You panicked. That's why I pulled you out."
He turned back to face them fully now.
"You will not set foot in another dungeon until you've memorized the complete bestiary of Tier 1 Magical Insects and Rodents. Every trait. Every quirk. Every counter."
There was no protest. No one even blinked.
Then, Heiron brought his palms together and clasped them.
"Alright," he said, tone shifting slightly. "Let's get to the next one."
He turned, his eyes falling on Gabe.
Wesley stood in the background, clutching his mop, watching in silence as the lesson continued—no longer a ghost in the shadows, but a witness to the world he had unknowingly stepped into.