Chapter 199
Two weeks (2)
Two weeks later…
IAM was in the middle of cleaning a toilet, his sleeves rolled up, the smell of industrial disinfectant clinging to his skin. His movements were sluggish, like someone half-possessed. He sprayed, swiped, scrubbed, then sprayed again. Each motion was identical to the last, as if he had fallen into a trance.
His eyes were half-closed, the lids heavy with sleep deprivation. Every few minutes, his head would dip slightly, as if caught mid-nod, only for him to jolt awake and rub at his face, dragging his gloved hands down with a frustrated groan. He had lost track of time — hours blurred together in the bleach fumes.
After he was done, he pressed the flush handle with a slow, ceremonial finality. The swirling water disappeared down the drain, leaving behind a spotless bowl. He stared at it for a moment like he had just finished painting a masterpiece, then turned and stepped out of the stall with the expression of someone who had just crawled out of a trench.
He paused at the sound of the bathroom door creaking open. A fellow student walked in. They locked eyes.
There was a few seconds of silence between them, that stretched long enough to feel ridiculous.
The student blinked.
IAM was standing there, mop in one hand, scrub brush in the other, dressed in a ridiculously frilly maid bonnet and a work apron that hung lopsided across his chest. Red rubber gloves clung to his arms like a second skin.
A damp towel dangled from his waistband. Beneath the apron, the unmistakable uniform of a Hope Academy student peeked out.
The student's face twitched. He tried to hold it in. He really did. But it came out anyway — a quick, involuntary snort that echoed slightly off the tiled walls.
He had heard the rumours.
That somewhere in the academy, a small group of students had been cursed to spend their days cleaning. Bathrooms. Hallways. Statues. Random hall corners that didn't even need cleaning. Always appearing out of nowhere, always looking dead behind the eyes. Nobody knew what they had done to deserve it — only that you occasionally caught glimpses of them, like urban legends in rubber gloves.
And now one was standing in front of him.
This student must be one of them, the boy thought with a sneer curling at the edge of his mouth. This was most likely a punishment.
That had to be it. There was no other explanation.
And now, seeing this one up close, it was hard not to feel a mixture of superiority and disgust.
He narrowed his eyes, watching as the boy shuffled toward the janitor's cart, moving slowly, his body sagging with fatigue, yet still upright like he was clinging to some final shred of dignity. It was almost pathetic. More importantly, he wasn't using his avien.
That was when the realization hit.
This was him. The one people had been talking about. The coward. The supposed sole survivor of the Hold— a title that had once held some buzz,, but now seemed like a joke given what he did.
Apparently, he'd stood there shaking during his match, frozen like a deer, and actually surrendered. Surrendered— when the outcome of the entire class had rested on his shoulders.
Because of him, the class had lost. It was said that even the instructor had been too stunned to speak at first. His fellow classmates were humiliated to lose in such a way.
So this was that guy?
The student folded his arms across his chest and watching with a growing smirk. A coward with no backbone.
He himself was in his fifth year. The pressure was immense. The academy didn't take kindly to underperformance at this stage — if you didn't meet your projected potential, there was no second chance.
You were immediately expelled. All the years of struggle, late nights, blood and sweat would mean nothing if you failed at the last lap.
And that weight was starting to get to him.
He had been walking around all day with a stone lodged in his chest— stress clawing at his insides, the pressure mounting like a noose. He needed to release it. Burn some of it off.
And now, by what could only be described as perfect timing… here was someone weak. Someone who wouldn't fight back.
A perfect outlet.
A corner of his lip twitched upward.
This coward was about to make his day a whole lot better.
His face twisted into an arrogant expression as he stepped forward, looking down on IAM with clear disdain.
"Oh would you—"
"I'm going to shove this mop up your ass."
IAM didn't even let him finish. He cut him off flatly, calmly, without raising his voice. His tone wasn't angry or aggressive — it was tired and bored. Like he had already lived this scene a dozen times over these past two weeks and didn't have the patience for it anymore.
The student froze mid-step, his mouth still slightly open. His confidence had faltered.
IAM slowly lifted the mop in his hands. He held it like a sword—and with a sluggishness, swung it toward the boy's head. It was the slowest swing imaginable, it was almost painfully slow, and it ended with a soft thunk as the wooden handle tapped the top of the student's skull.
The boy flinched slightly, not because it hurt, but because it was so unexpected. His eyes went wide, more confused than anything else.
IAM let out a long sigh and shook his head.
"If Henry was here," he muttered, "he'd probably say 'do it again, that was trash.'"
He sounded like someone who had been through too much in too little time. He didn't even look at the student again— just lowered the mop, grabbed his cleaning supplies, and turned to leave like he had somewhere better to be.
And maybe he did.
The student stood frozen, still processing everything that just happened. For a few seconds, all he could do was blink.
What the hell?
That kid wasn't normal.
He looked down at the mop, then back at the door IAM had just walked out of.
"…Completely crazy," he mumbled, rubbing the top of his head where the mop had landed. "What the hell was that…"
...
As IAM made his way to the combat grounds, his mind was swimming in quiet lamentation.
These punishments that the Student Council had issued weren't just "useless" — they were maddeningly pointless. Every area they'd been assigned to clean had already been properly scrubbed and maintained by the academy staff. The foors were spotless. The toilets gleamed. Not a single corner showed signs of dirt or grime. And yet, day after day, they were sent in like backup staff to redo what had already been done.
And it wasn't just mindless repetition. No, they weren't allowed to slack off either. The aprons they wore—those humiliating maid aprons—had a small surveillance camera discreetly embedded in the chest, watching them at all times. Even if the job was already done, they had to go through the motions with enthusiasm.
IAM sighed.
It was never about the cleaning. That much was clear now. The real punishment was psychological. The embarrassment of being seen by other students while dressed like a part-time janitor.
Every public appearance was a reminder that they were being penalized. And worse, it ate into their day. Valuable hours wasted that could've gone to far more important things: training, research, rest, or even just breathing space.
The academy wasn't just pushing them with this punishment — it was reminding them of their place. Reminding IAM to think twice before ever landing in trouble again. It was working too. Deep in his bones, he could feel it: a quiet, burning resolve to never be on the Academy's radar again.
But the day wasn't over.
Now, after all that, after a full day of lectures, cleaning, awkward encounters, and cold stares— he still had sword training with Henry. And while he didn't want to admit it out loud… training with Henry wasn't exactly a relaxing way to end the day.
It wasn't a reward. It was another form of punishment.
A constructive one, sure, but punishment all the same.
Still, he wasn't going to complain. Not much, anyway. He pushed through.Until, finally, after what felt like an eternity, Henry clapped him on the shoulder and said they were done for the night.
IAM barely remembered walking back to the dorm.
As soon as he stepped into his room, he dropped into bed like a stone thrown into a river. His limbs refused to move. His eyes barely stayed open long enough to register the ceiling. He didn't bother changing out of his clothes. The moment his head hit the pillow, he was out.
Fast asleep.