"Name's Wesley. The Legendary Spearmaster, Wesley Grime!"
BOOOOM!
The sky howled.
Thunder cracked like a divine whip across the firmament. Clouds shattered into spirals of gold and violet, torn apart by the sheer pressure in the air.
Winds screeched like banshees and the mountain peak beneath Wesley trembled, groaning with the weight of the cultivation aura being released.
He stood atop the highest summit of Mount Azurehowl, a sacred peak revered by sages and feared by beasts.
Celestial light curved around his silhouette, a silhouette more noble than jade, sharper than the edge of a blade, wrapped in flowing robes of starlight thread.
His long, light blonde hair danced like a wildfire. And his golden eyes gleamed like twin suns ready to incinerate all falsehood in the world.
Wesley raised his spear, its shaft humming with divine resonance. The weapon pulsed. A single thrust could split oceans. A flick could shatter moons.
"Those who defy me," Wesley roared, his voice thundering across realms, "will taste my spear, which can split the heavens above and reach the bottom of the never-ending abyss!"
The moment his words finished, his cultivation energy surged forth.
BOOM!
CRACK!
The very concept of "wind" ceased to exist. The air caved in. Invisible pressure crashed outward like a tidal wave, warping space. Trees far below snapped like matchsticks.
The clouds above? Obliterated.
Turned to wisps by the sheer force of his presence.
SLASH!
Wesley swung his spear in a wide arc. The sky screamed. The sun blinked behind a jagged tear in reality as his attack carved through it like butter.
The mountain shook violently, enormous slabs of rock tearing loose and tumbling down. Another slash, and the clouds spiraled in reverse, as if time itself recoiled in fear.
SLASH!
This time, the ground quaked. Chasms opened beneath him, swallowing entire ridges of land. Even the shadows hid themselves. Mountains in the distance bowed. Peaks crumbled.
He stood firm. Spear behind him. Back straight. Robes fluttering like a god come down to walk among mortals.
"This," he declared, his voice calm but echoing like a bell through eternity, "is my legendary power."
"YOOHOOOO!"
A strange voice cracked through the silence.
"JANITOR! You're soooo cool!"
"Janitor, you're so ethereal! You look like a royal paladin sent from up above to cleanse all the evils in this world!"
Cheers burst like firecrackers in all directions.
Wesley blinked.
He turned his head slowly.
There, in front of him, just outside the classroom door, was a group of girls—eight in total—dressed in their academy mage uniforms.
All wore tight corsets laced with silver runes, skirts shorter than appropriate, stockings imbued with mana-sealing glyphs, and their youthful faces flushed with excitement.
"Oh my god, that stance—did you see it?!"
"He looked like he was summoning a legendary light!"
"Janitor-sama! One more time! Swing that mop—I mean, that spear—again!"
Wesley's face burned bright red.
The illusion was shattered.
His "spear" wobbled in his hand… a cleaning mop, worn from years of use. The only thing it had split was a puddle of dirty water ten minutes ago.
The mountain?
Just a storage room with a view of the academy's artificial sky dome.
The wind?
Just a gust from the ventilation spell.
The rumbling?
His stomach. He skipped lunch.
The epic scene that had played out—was all in his head.
That's Wesley's only way to make cleaning a little less boring, and since there's no phone or radio to distract him in this world, this is the only thing he can do to amuse himself—creating an imaginary immortal cultivation world in his head.
"Legendary Spearmaster?" came a mocking voice.
Wesley froze.
Behind the girls, three boys leaned on the wall, laughing.
One of them exaggerated a heroic pose. "Those who defy me shall taste… my mop!"
Another joined in. "My mop… can clean both the heavens and the dirty toilets!"
The third faked being blasted back, staggering comically. "Oh no! The janitor has released his sacred detergent aura!"
Laughter erupted.
Wesley sighed, trying not to show his humiliation.
The girls spun around, eyes sharp.
"Knock it off!" one barked. "At least he's not wasting his family's tuition on mana enhancement pills just to stay bottom-rank!"
"Yeah!" another snapped. "Wesley-san is nice! He always smiles at us! What do you do? Bully the janitor? Is that the best you can do?"
One girl with teal pigtails jabbed her finger at them. "You think you're funny? You're just jealous 'cause even a janitor looks cooler than you!"
The boys rolled their eyes but didn't back down.
A new voice joined, soft and condescending. "Come on now," said a tall mean boy at the back of the group. His uniform was sharp. He wore an ornate badge—a third-tier mana crest, proof of advanced aptitude. "Don't be too harsh on those who have low-level Manas. All they can do is dream. We shouldn't destroy what little spirit they have, should we?"
His voice was like honey laced with poison.
The other girls bristled.
"Excuse me? Are you mocking him too?"
"Don't pretend you're any better, Clarissa!"
"At least we cheer him up! What do you do, huh? Whisper pity lines and act superior?"
Clarence combed his hair to the back. "I'm just being honest. But sure, I'll apologize if I stepped on anyone's pride."
"Pride? Are you even human?"
Before things could escalate further—
CREEEAAAK.
The classroom door opened.
Everyone snapped to attention.
A middle-aged man stepped out. His robes were layered, elegant, embedded with flowing enchantments. His beard was neat. His mana presence, even restrained, was suffocating.
It was Instructor Heiron, a fifth-circle mage and disciplinary head.
"What's going on here?" he asked, tone calm but cold.
The girls pointed. "Sir, the boys are bullying the janitor again!"
Wesley raised his hand sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. "It's fine. Really. I don't mind."
Instructor Heiron turned to the boys. "That's enough. This isn't the first time I've heard about this." He frowned. "Are your studies that lacking that you've resorted to bullying support staff?"
The boys went silent.
Then, Heiron turned to Wesley. "Mr. Grime. I apologize on their behalf. They've made quite a mess inside. I'm afraid the spellcraft training left soot on the floors and walls."
Wesley nodded. "No problem, sir."
In his mind, he thought, At least the teacher's respectful. That's good enough.
"Thank you," Heiron said with a bow. "I have a lecture to finish. Take your time."
With that, he walked past the group, leading his students back into the lecture hall. The students filed in, the girls huffing at the boys, the boys snickering again under their breath.
"Legendary Spearmaster…" one whispered.
"Fear my janitorial arts…" another mumbled.
Wesley smiled faintly, then exhaled through his nose. The hall quieted. The voices faded. The moment passed.
He stood still for a second, then slowly picked up his mop and bucket, wheeling them toward the classroom door.
The truth is, Wesley came from Earth.
A normal life. No friends. No lovers. No glory.
Just bills. A dull office. Numb commutes.
Then… death.
Two truck-kuns.
The first he dodged.
The second didn't miss.
It was like they teamed up. Like fate really wanted him out.
He remembered the void. The system prompt. The spinning reincarnation wheel.
He remembered thinking: Maybe I'll get a cheat. A system. Be chosen by fate. Finally.
But no.
He woke up in a noble family, yes.
But his mana levels? Pathetic.
Too low to even conjure a magical spark.
To hide their shame, they sent him to the Royal Azure Academy—not as a student, but as a janitor.
To clean up after kids half his emotional age.
Still… Wesley wasn't bitter.
He was an adult in a teen body. He'd lived long enough to not be swayed by childish things. He didn't need glory. Just a quiet job. A warm meal. A roof. That was enough.
He wheeled his bucket into the classroom.
Placed the mop against the wall.
Sighed.
And pulled the bucket forward.
Then he looked up—
And stopped.
His mouth parted in disbelief.
His eyes widened.
He was utterly, completely flabbergasted by what he saw.
The classroom was a battlefield—no, not metaphorically. Literally. Broken chairs lay twisted like fallen warriors. Scorch marks clawed across the stone floor and up the walls.
Blackened fragments of paper fluttered like defeated flags, floating in sluggish arcs through the warm, acrid air.
One table was entirely overturned, its legs snapped, its center charred like the corpse of some mythical beast that had died screaming.
Books had been reduced to ash and embers, still smoking at the corners.
Wesley let out a long, tired sigh. "Another one, huh."
He shuffled to the side, setting his mop bucket down with a soft clunk.
The water inside rippled gently.
A moment later, he dipped the mop into it with a dramatic flourish, water splashing in a splish-splash like a ritual being performed. With a firm grip, he yanked the mop out with some of the water dripping in thick, slow droplets. Then—
WHAM!
He slammed the mop onto the floor with all the flair of a war general drawing first blood.
The floor shuddered. The walls groaned. Wesley's eyes gleamed.
At once, the ruined classroom dissolved around him.
Now, he stood atop a shattered cliff hovering above clouds of red mist and gold lightning.
The air hummed with tension.
Ruins of ancient temples floated midair, fragments orbiting invisible axes like stars around celestial cores.
A blood-red moon cast its light upon a realm drenched in power.
He was no longer just a janitor.
He was Wesley Grime, the Spearmaster of the Ninth Immortal Sky, Wielder of the Flame-Slaying Polearm, Guardian of Heaven's Broom!
Suddenly, four warrior spirits erupted from the ground in front of him. Those are the places that need cleaning the most!
FWOOSH! FWOOM! FWAHH! FWAAAM!
Their forms were wreathed in flames, their eyes twin suns of hatred and ancient malice.
They bore weapons shaped like jagged sickles of magma and armor fused from volcanic stone.
Fire crackled in their breath as they stood in formation, blocking his path.
"Challenge accepted," Wesley whispered, the mop—no, the legendary spear—twirling in his grasp with a whir-whir-whirl.
He crouched low, legs tense, ready to charge.
Suddenly, in the moment—
DING!
Everything froze.
The battlefield cracked like glass. Red skies split. Floating islands turned to pixelated fragments. The spirits, mid-snarl, paused in time.
SHATTER!
In a blink-of-an-eye, the illusion ruptured and fell away like a curtain.
Wesley was back in the destroyed classroom, his mop still soaked, dripping onto the soot-streaked floor.
But something remained.
A screen appeared before him. Translucent. Glowing. Defying the mundane world around it as it floats.
[ Janitor System Activated ]