But he shrugged it off. He didn't see anyone. Although, he could feel something.
As Wesley stepped out into the courtyard near the southern wing of the academy, he paused.
There it was again.
Something itched at the back of his neck. That uncomfortable sensation—like unseen eyes boring into his skin—sent a chill down his spine.
He turned slowly.
Standing casually, leaning against one of the stone columns like they'd been waiting for him all this time, were a group of boys.
All of them wore the signature uniform of Instructor Heiron's elite class. Robes pristine. Collars stiff.
Their boots were polished, their hair perfectly parted, their postures straight like the etiquette masters beat them into noble form.
"Hey, Janitor," the tallest one said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Wesley blinked. "...Hello?"
Another boy stepped forward and offered a small bow that felt more like a mockery than respect. "We meet again. Janitor Wesley, right?"
"Yeah," Wesley replied flatly.
"You really were something earlier." The tall one chuckled. "Taking down a knight without Mana? You must've eaten a good breakfast or something."
The others laughed. Too hard. Too long. Too perfect.
Wesley smiled stiffly. "Ah, that. Just lucky, I guess."
The boys circled a little closer.
"Oh come on," another one said, elbowing him lightly. "Don't be so humble. Everyone saw it."
"Yeah," another added, nodding. "He didn't use his Mana, sure, but still... your movements were solid. You were holding back, weren't you?"
Wesley tilted his head and rubbed the back of his neck. "Honestly, no. He was just trying to provoke me so I'd get serious. I guess it worked too well."
"That's how he fights?" one asked, curiously. "With killing intent?"
"He didn't mean it," Wesley lied smoothly. "It was for show. You know. Motivation."
"Right, motivation," the tallest boy repeated with a smirk.
They all nodded in sync, as if satisfied by the answer, but Wesley could feel it. The way their gazes lingered just a second too long. The way their shoulders stiffened even as they laughed. The tension behind their smiles. There was something off. Something wrong beneath all the politeness.
He had seen this before—back in his old life, back on Earth. The fake smiles. The passive-aggressive compliments. The probing questions. These weren't greetings; they were interrogations, just wearing a friendly mask.
They kept walking alongside him, subtly boxing him in, their tone light but their eyes sharp.
"So, Janitor Wesley," one said. "We were actually about to go train."
"Yeah," said another, "we figured, you know, since you're obviously talented and everything... maybe you'd wanna join us?"
Wesley slowed down. "I'd love to, but I'm actually really tired."
"Oh come on," a boy said, his smile sharp as glass. "We'll pay you. One bronze coin."
"I'll pass."
"Three?"
"No."
"Seven?"
Wesley sighed. "Still no."
"Nine."
He didn't answer.
"Twelve?"
"I said I'm tired."
"Fifteen?"
"I'm really tired."
"Twenty silvers."
That made Wesley pause. He turned to look at the tall one.
"…Silver?"
The boy grinned, pleased. "We don't want to bother you all day. Just a little sparring match. No big deal."
Twenty silvers was too much for such a simple request. These guys weren't just being persistent—they were trying to keep him from walking away.
Wesley frowned slightly but nodded. "Fine." After all, he is dying to know what they are planning too.
The boys led him down a side corridor Wesley didn't recognize. It was quiet, a little too quiet, and when they passed through the back archway and into a secluded training arena, he immediately knew this wasn't a commonly used place.
The walls were faded. The chalk lines on the stone floor barely visible. No instructors. No other students. Just the echo of their footsteps and the distant rustle of wind.
Wesley's instincts screamed.
But he said nothing.
The boys made their way to the equipment rack and, one by one, began pulling out wooden spears. They tossed them around, spinning them like they were trying to impress each other, laughing loudly, too loudly.
Wesley just leaned against the wall, his mop resting beside him, arms crossed.
He watched.
They began training.
Not in pairs. Not in drills.
No, they each took turns stabbing into the air. Swinging downward. Practicing long thrusts. All the while talking—loud, exaggerated chatter meant to distract or provoke.
"Did you hear the knight say he had talent?"
"Yeah, it must be because he's got the noble spirit of a knight—that's how it works, right?"
"Or maybe that mop is a divine artifact."
They laughed again. But Wesley didn't respond.
He stood quietly.
Pretending not to care.
Pretending he wasn't paying attention.
Minutes passed. They kept training, circling loosely around him.
And then—behind him.
A voice rang out.
"You damn janitor!"
Wesley turned.
"What?" Wesley blinked, staring blankly at the boy in front of him, who looked like he'd just sprinted a mile through pure rage.
"You damn janitor!" the student barked again, his fists clenched so tightly the veins on his neck looked ready to burst. His eyes burned with that young, immature fire that only existed in those who hadn't yet been beaten by life enough to calm down.
"Huh?" Wesley raised an eyebrow, not moving. "Are you... talking to me?"
"Don't play dumb!" the boy snapped, stepping forward, pointing accusingly. "You know exactly what you did! You humiliated her in front of everyone!"
Wesley blinked again. "Her?"
"Lola!"
"…Who?"
The boy's face twisted with disbelief and fury. "Don't act like you don't know who she is! The girl who offered you a sword! You rejected her—in public—like she was trash!"
Now that rang a bell. Wesley vaguely remembered. Lola... right, the girl who shyly approached with a wooden sword, cheeks flushed pink, offering it with both hands like she was handing over a sacred relic.
He'd hesitated, system warning flaring up in front of his eyes, then gently declined. Said something about being used to his mop.
Told her not to feel bad, but apparently, he said the worst thing you could say in this world to a lovestruck teenager: "It's not you, it's me."
Oh. Damn.
"I—I really didn't mean—" Wesley began, trying to salvage it.
"You broke her heart!" the boy shouted, stepping even closer. "She cried for hours! And you just walked away like it meant nothing! Like she was nothing!"
"I didn't even know her name," Wesley said honestly, before realizing that probably wasn't the best reply.
The boy's rage exploded anew. "You bastard! I'm going to beat you into the ground!"
Wesley sighed internally. Ah, teenagers and their short-circuited emotional circuits.
Outwardly, however, he raised both hands in a slow, calming motion. "Okay, okay. Let's slow down. You're... obviously very passionate about this."
"She's my childhood friend!" the student barked. "She's my first love! Do you even understand what that means?!"
Oh, here we go.
The boy launched into a tirade—an emotionally charged monologue so theatrical that Wesley half expected a curtain to drop from the sky and a spotlight to shine.
He ranted about Lola's kindness, her delicate heart, how she always tried to help others.
How long she mustered the courage to step forward and offer him the sword.
How devastating it must have been when Wesley turned her down so casually.
How she probably cried in secret, torn apart, humiliated in front of everyone.
Wesley's jaw went slack as he listened, not because he was impressed, but because—holy shit—this kid was still going. The drama. The intensity. The sheer volume of delusion packed into every sentence.
He tried to interject once, maybe twice, but the student just steamrolled over every word, as if his speech was the most important performance of the year and the show must go on.
At one point, he even said, "And when she got back to the dorms, she didn't even eat dinner! That's how hurt she was! You ever skip dinner because of emotional heartbreak?!"
Wesley blinked. "...No?"
"Exactly!"
He wanted to laugh. He really did. But this wasn't the time.
In his mind, Wesley was calculating fast. He couldn't fight. Not right now. His spear techniques had been... mutated into mop techniques.
What the hell was he supposed to do? Sweep them into submission? Wax their faces until they passed out?
No. He needed to de-escalate this. Fast.
So, when the boy finally paused to catch his breath—after what felt like a full ten-minute rant—Wesley raised a hand and said, in the calmest voice he could muster, "Woah, woah, woah. Let's not jump to conclusions."
The boy blinked. "What?"
"Don't get me wrong," Wesley said, lowering his voice to a more somber tone. "You think I turned her down because I looked down on her?"
"Yes!" the boy snarled.
"You think I humiliated her on purpose?"
"Obviously!"
Wesley sighed and looked away, putting on a troubled expression that would make soap opera actors proud. "You misunderstood everything. I didn't turn her down because she wasn't good enough. I turned her down because... I saw the way you looked at her."
The student blinked.
Wesley pushed forward, eyes narrowed, voice soft. "That look in your eyes. The way you were clenching your fists. You didn't even realize it, did you? But I saw it. The way you looked at her when she approached me. That wasn't anger. That was... love."
The boy stepped back slightly. "W-What...?"
"I knew, right then, that you liked her. No—loved her. And I..." Wesley let out a breath. "I couldn't be the reason she slipped through your fingers."
The student stared.
"I'm just a janitor. You're her childhood friend. You've been there all this time. If I had accepted her sword, if I'd allowed her to attach meaning to it... I would've come between something real." Wesley bowed his head solemnly. "So I refused. Not because I didn't appreciate it. But because I respected what the two of you had. What you felt for her."
The courtyard went still.
The boy was blinking rapidly, his face turning a strange mix of confusion, embarrassment, and guilt. "You... you really thought that?"
"I knew it," Wesley said, nodding. "And I'm sorry if she was hurt. But trust me—if she ends up with you, it'll mean a thousand times more than if she'd been distracted by someone like me."
The boy wavered, lower lip twitching.
It might've worked.
It might have actually worked... if one of the other students who'd been part of the original group—probably jealous or annoyed—hadn't decided to ruin it.
"He's lying," the other boy said casually, crossing his arms. "Wesley doesn't even know who you are."
The courtyard's silence fractured like glass.
The love-struck student's face darkened in an instant. "What...?"
"I told you," the other student continued smugly, "he's a fake. He's just trying to get out of trouble. He didn't know your name. He didn't know hers either."
Wesley sighed.
Back to square one.
Of course. Nothing ever came easy in this place.
Damn it!