In the worn-down but still formidable Knight Arena Four, the clang of wood against wind echoed dully as Gabe swung his wooden sword in sweeping arcs, his stance sharp, movements refined—but his face? Pissed.
The scowl on his lips seemed etched in stone, every stroke a vent for the frustration gnawing at his chest.
"This is bullshit," Gabe muttered under his breath, slicing through the air again. His muscles tensed.
He spun, shifted, pivoted, then struck down, but all he cut was silence.
The emptiness in the arena seemed to mock his lonely silhouette.
"They're probably in that damn dungeon right now… all of them. Theo, Kendrick, even that loudmouth Beryl… they're in there getting trained by Instructor Heiron himself.
"Hell, they're probably slashing through those animated statues or sparring against golems right now, building real muscle, gaining real experience—while I'm here," he kicked the dusty floor with his heel, "playing with shadows like some fool."
His voice rose, echoing as though trying to argue with the very space around him.
"Sixth Stage, huh? Just stay back and reach Sixth Stage like it's that easy? And how, huh?! How am I supposed to improve when I'm swinging alone like an idiot?! There's no one to spar with! What am I, some kind of training monk locked away from the world?! Damn it!"
He slashed again, harder this time, and the wood shrieked against the friction in the air.
"I bet Instructor Heiron's giving pointers to Theo again. Of course he would. He's always favored Theo since the beginning. Kendrick probably already broke through to Fifth by now with that enchanted sword he got from his dad. And Beryl—hah! That clown's probably yelling his head off and still learning more than I am."
Gabe stopped, shoulders heaving, even though his breathing hadn't truly quickened.
That made it worse.
All this effort, and not even the benefit of exhaustion.
His mana reserves were untouched—he hadn't even used them. He wasn't supposed to. Not yet. Not until his control sharpened. Not until he made it perfect.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed them—eight figures dressed in coarse brown tunics, half-hidden behind the stadium pillars.
Cleaners.
The lowest caste in the Academy, usually ignored by everyone, including him. But today? Today they were a target.
Gabe narrowed his eyes and turned sharply. "Hey! You. The eight of you."
They startled like deer, brooms and rags pausing mid-motion as they turned toward the angry young knight.
"Y-Yes, young master?" one of them, a thin man in his forties, asked carefully.
Gabe pointed his wooden sword at them like a general commanding troops. "Attack me."
Silence. They stared at him.
"I said, attack me. All of you. At once."
One of them choked. "E-Excuse me?"
"I won't use Mana. I'll only defend," Gabe declared coldly. "If you land a hit—just one—I'll give you one bronze coin per hit."
The cleaners looked at one another in disbelief, exchanging glances that ranged from bafflement to mild terror.
"But we're just—" one began, but Gabe cut him off.
"No excuses. You wanted breaks, right? You like free coin? Here's your chance. Come at me. No mana. No weapons that can kill—wooden swords only."
They shuffled, murmured among themselves.
"Is he serious?"
"He must be losing his mind…"
"What if we hurt him? What if someone sees?"
"Hurt him? Are you mad? Look at him! He could crush our necks with a glance."
"Still, he said bronze coins. That's a week's pay…"
"And he said he won't use mana. That's got to count for something."
One older woman, hunched and gray-haired, frowned deeply. "What if this is a trap? What if he's just doing this to punish us?"
Another, a younger man with soot smudged on his cheeks, replied, "I mean, worst case? We swing and miss. Best case? We walk out richer."
Eventually, their whispering ceased. The eight gathered in a line, shoulders hunched like students about to be scolded. Gabe motioned them closer with a curt nod.
"Good. Now—go fetch some wooden swords from the rack. I won't fight you if you don't take it seriously."
They hesitated, then turned and jogged—awkwardly and half-afraid—to the rack near the training walls. The swords were old, worn, and heavier than standard weapons. Not that it would matter. Not against Gabe.
A few minutes passed.
When they returned, swords clutched in callused hands, Gabe stood still in the center of the arena. His shadow stretched long beneath the fading light, and as the cleaners formed a ragged circle around him, he looked every bit the unmoved mountain.
"Are you ready?" he asked, calmly now.
They nodded, reluctantly. Their fingers twitched against their grips.
Gabe raised his arms slightly, sword angled back, feet planted. "Attack."
What followed was chaos.
They rushed at once, eight bodies stumbling toward him with all the discipline of a drunken riot.
The first to reach him, a stout man with wide arms, swung low.
Gabe sidestepped, letting the blade miss by a hair.
The second came from behind, but Gabe ducked, using the attacker's momentum to let him crash into the first. A third tried to jab from the side, but Gabe pivoted, and the blow struck his own teammate square in the ribs.
One by one, they came, and one by one, they missed. Not because they weren't trying, but because they were wildly outclassed.
Gabe didn't counter. He didn't retaliate. He didn't even touch them.
He parried one strike, letting the force throw the attacker off-balance.
Another he disarmed just by shifting slightly and letting the man's sword clatter to the ground in frustration.
Every swing thrown at him either met empty air, bounced harmlessly off his wooden blade, or, more often than not, accidentally struck one of the others.
Sweat poured from the cleaners within minutes.
They gasped, stumbled, cursed as their own blows collided with their allies.
Two of them even collapsed onto each other after tripping over the hem of their tunics.
One sword went flying when its wielder tried too hard to impress and over-rotated. Another cracked at the hilt after bouncing against the arena floor.
All the while, Gabe's anger only deepened.
"This is what I have to work with? This? I might as well fight straw dummies!"
He side-stepped a reckless lunge, watched two more cleaners crash into each other with a pained grunt, and muttered, "Disgraceful…"
The blows didn't come close. He wasn't even sweating. His hair, not a strand out of place. His breathing? Calm as a spring breeze.
Minutes passed, then half an hour, and then—finally—the eight collapsed.
One by one, they fell. Either panting, groaning, or simply lying face-first on the arena floor, their arms unable to lift their swords anymore.
Gabe stood in the center, untouched, unmoved.
"Disappointing," he said aloud, voice filled with venomous irritation.
He lowered his sword and closed his eyes, fighting the urge to yell again. He needed pressure. He needed real opponents. This—this wasn't training. This was a waste of time.
Then, a soft slosh.
Gabe's eyes opened.
From the far side of the arena, footsteps echoed softly—measured, quiet, almost out of place.
A lone figure entered, mop in one hand, bucket in the other.
The mop sloshed lazily as he walked, and his figure was small, almost thin, dressed in the same brown tunic as the others.
Gabe turned his head slightly, one brow lifting.
The cleaners groaned from the floor. The new figure stepped past them silently, offering neither word nor glance, eyes fixed on the arena stones as if they were all he cared about.
He placed the bucket down, dipped the mop in with casual grace, and began swabbing the floor at the very edge of the arena.
Gabe narrowed his eyes. The audacity of it. To walk in here now. To clean—while he was still standing there, boiling with frustration.
But something about the boy's silence… something about his calm movements… made Gabe pause.
The wood of the mop scraped the stone.
The water sloshed again.
Gabe, still holding his wooden sword, tilted his head.
"Who the hell are you?" he asked.
The mop paused. The boy didn't look up.
Then, slowly, the boy answered without emotion.
"Just a cleaner."