Chapter 12: Wish of the Masochist
Currently, Wesley was just sloshing his mop across the arena floor, eyes focused on the old stains of blood and shallow gashes carved into the worn stone.
He traced them absentmindedly with the frayed strands of his mop, estimating how many strokes it would take to get them clean.
In his mind, he made notes—two strokes for dried blood, three for sticky guts, five if it was soaked into a crack.
That stain near the wall? Probably left by a failed spear technique. The one near the center? Maybe a misstep in footwork.
He was learning something from all of it.
In fact, with each swish of the mop, he imagined himself reenacting the battles, piecing together the rhythm of the fights that had taken place here.
It was his private form of study, a strange fusion of imagination, observation, and system-assisted intuition.
He wasn’t ready to take on his mission yet, but he was preparing. Quietly. Gradually. To make it more fun in his imagination.
And then a voice broke through the silence like a slap.
"Oh, I remember you!" someone shouted. "You’re the Spear of Heaven!"
Wesley looked up, confused, brow furrowed.