After a week, Wesley found himself in the same room—the same wooden floors, the same dustless walls, the same rhythmic silence that had become his strange sanctuary.
But this time, he wasn't cleaning. He wasn't scrubbing or wiping or polishing the corners.
Instead, he stood in the center of the room, eyes closed, breathing even, and the mop resting at his side like a weapon sheathed in meditation.
In his mind, the world had changed again, the edges of reality folding away like parchment curling in fire.
His thoughts dove deep into imagination—no, not mere fantasy.
A simulation, vivid and pulsing with life, born from his hunger to grow stronger.
He stood not in a classroom, but on the scorched stone plains of the Infernal Wastes, a realm whispered about only in the darkest tomes of ancient cultivation lore.
Flames lashed the black skies, and the stench of sulfur choked the heavens.
The ground was cracked and seething with molten rivers, and above him, thunder rumbled—not of storms, but of beasts.
Dozens of Immortal Fire Wolves emerged from the fog of heat, their fur composed of smoldering embers, tongues flicking flame, and their eyes two brilliant suns of killing intent.
Each step they took left trails of scorched stone and smoking ash. They circled him with snarls like an infernal choir.
Wesley, no longer just a lowly janitor, now stood robed in gleaming silver-azure robes embroidered with stars and clouds, the mark of an immortal cultivator.
His breath was steady, and a heavenly spear shimmered in his hand—long, spiraling with golden runes that pulsed with celestial power.
Doooooonngg!!!
His hair flowed behind him, not from wind, but from raw energy gathering like a tidal wave within his dantian.
The wolves struck.
They didn't wait for honor. These were Immortal Wolves born of flame and violence. They surged in from all directions, teeth bared, a wall of searing death.
Wesley moved.
His spear spun, trailing arcs of light that shattered the charging line.
One wolf burst apart mid-air, its body exploding into a nova of fire and smoke. He leapt into the air, flipping over a lunging wolf as two more shot flames from their mouths.
The heat caught the edge of his robes, but a golden aura flickered across his body, dispelling the fire like a passing breeze.
One wolf, massive and three-headed, let out a shriek that rattled the mountains in the distance. Its heads each gathered condensed flame—white, blue, and violet.
The ultimate breath attack.
Wesley pointed his spear skyward. "Sky-Sundering Heavenly Arts: Final Judgment!"
Lightning tore from the heavens.
Golden, vast, and divine.
It pierced the clouds and obliterated the wolf in a thunderclap so loud the earth itself split.
He landed, his spear spinning into a guard stance, and six more wolves pounced.
He spun, dodged, twisted midair, and with a palm strike glowing with starfire, reduced them to scorched shadows on the rock. Another wave came. More.
The fight turned endless, like time frozen in a loop of flame, death, and divine combat.
His robes grew tattered, burned at the edges.
Blood trickled down from his lips, and his spear wavered. He had fought for what felt like hours—no, maybe days—in this mental illusion, his cultivation realm was pushed to its edge.
But finally, only one wolf remained.
The leader.
Bigger than the rest, with flames so hot the air rippled around its body like a mirage. It growled low, a sound that made the sky dim, and then it pounced.
Wesley let his spear fall.
Not in surrender—but in understanding.
His foot slid back slightly, lowering his center of gravity, and then, with one breath that echoed like the chant of a thousand monks, he clenched his fist and struck.
The wolf exploded.
Not in flames—but in clean, golden light.
And in that instant—the surrounding wolves vanished.
The burning plains twisted and unraveled like a tapestry doused in water.
The spear became a cleaning mop again.
The scorched ground smoothed into a spotless tile.
The bloody skies melted into a ceiling of wooden beams and white plaster.
And Wesley stood there, alone in the room. The desks sparkled. The floor was so clean it reflected his face. The chalkboard gleamed, free of even the faintest mark.
The illusion had ended.
But unlike last week, there was no joy this time. No smile. No breath of satisfaction. His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of monotony pulling them down.
He opened his eyes slowly, walked toward the edge of the room with silent steps, and muttered to himself, "Is this it?"
He looked at his hands, clenching and unclenching them, still slightly trembling from the phantom exhaustion. "No improvement. Just more resistance to flame attacks and a handful of experience points." He turned his gaze to the clean tiles. "Still stuck at Level Seven Mana User on both Knighthood and Mage paths and almost as strong as those students… and to reach eight stages… I need seven more weeks if only three rooms are allowed to be cleaned by me."
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples.
"Seven more weeks of this? That's... absurd. I want change."
Wesley wasn't in pain. He wasn't even frustrated. What he felt was deeper than both—an ache born of stagnation, of being capable of more and still being forced to wipe tiles. He could tolerate it, sure. He had tolerated worse. But this wasn't about tolerance anymore.
He needed more.
Then it struck him.
"Wait," he said aloud, "I can just ask for a promotion—or more duties. Yeah, more duties mean more rooms, and more rooms... more experience. Maybe even access to newer areas, spells, or rarer elemental types."
The idea sparked something in him, and without wasting another breath, he stormed out of the room, mop still in hand.
Down the stone stairwell of the Janitorial Hall, across the waxed marble floors that led into the inner courtyard of the Magic Tower's support wing, Wesley moved fast.
Several other staff turned their heads, surprised by his haste, but he didn't care.
He arrived at the Maintenance Department, a building that looked far older than the rest of the magical campus. It was made of old pine wood, weathered and darkened by decades of magic discharge.
The hallways smelled like oil, steel, and dust. Here, enchantments were minimal, wards less powerful—the magic wasn't for combat, after all, but for utility.
Wesley walked through the corridor and reached the supervisor's office.
Inside sat a man who looked more like a retired war hero than a janitor.
The old knight was hunched over his chair, his two sleeves empty, folded neatly over his lap.
His armor had long since been replaced with faded, thickly woven home clothing—comfortable, old, probably handed down from some battlefield bunk. His expression remained still as he heard the door open, but he didn't look up.
"What do you want?" came the gruff voice, hoarse and heavy.
Wesley straightened his back and bowed slightly. "Sir, I'd like to request more cleaning assignments. Other rooms, more variety."
The man didn't budge. "Then clean them."
"I mean officially assigned," Wesley pressed, swallowing down the lump in his throat. "The system—I mean, the schedule—won't allow me access unless I'm listed. I—" he hesitated, then pushed forward with the lie he crafted on the spot, "—I'm part of an independent assessment program from the administrative circle. They're tracking my performance. I need authorization to be scheduled for more."
The supervisor didn't blink. "That's a lie."
Wesley flinched. "Sir, I—"
"You want more money?" the old knight asked, finally shifting slightly in his seat. "Is that it? You in debt? Someone you owe?"
"No." Wesley's voice softened but remained firm. "I just want to clean more rooms. That's all. I'm not asking for more pay. Just... more to do."
A long silence.
The old man slowly turned, his eyes finally meeting Wesley's for the first time.
"Huh?"