From his spot just beyond the boundary lines of the arena, Wesley stood with his mop planted at his side, the freshly renewed shaft gleaming faintly in the shifting light.
The other cleaners were beside him, some leaning on brooms, others holding buckets, all watching in silence now—caught between awe and curiosity.
The arena was quiet save for the faint echo of bootsteps on stone as Instructor Heiron paced with measured calm in the center, eyes firm, voice poised.
"Gabe," Heiron said, stopping squarely in front of the young knight. "Do you know why I had you focus only on defense during training?"
Gabe blinked.
The boy's stance was respectful, his hands clasped behind his back, but Wesley could tell even from afar—he hadn't a clue. Gabe tilted his head slightly.
"I… don't really know, sir," he admitted. "I've wondered that a few times, honestly."
Heiron's mouth curled in a faint smirk. Not mockery, but satisfaction. The type that came before a long-delayed explanation.
"Good. That's the first honest answer I've heard in weeks."
He turned now, his deep voice rolling through the arena, addressing all his students.
"Let me explain to you all—because apparently, I've allowed too many of you to mistake noise for power, and force for dominance."
He walked slowly, hands behind his back, his tone rich with gravity.
"Offense draws attention. It's loud. It's bright. You all think victory belongs to the one who strikes first, or strikes hardest. But that's a child's thinking. A sword is not a shield. A sword kills, but it cannot keep you alive—not when you're outnumbered, not when you're ambushed, not when you're exhausted."
Heiron gestured subtly to the arena floor.
"Defense is discipline. Control. Endurance. It is the art of surviving long enough to choose when to end a battle. You may kill your opponent with a single blow, yes, but if you bleed out from an earlier mistake—then what good was your speed? Your technique? Your blade?"
He turned again, locking eyes with another student. "Inside the dungeon, you panicked. You had no fallback. No rotation. No cover strategy. Why? Because you've never thought of your role beyond your sword's reach. You didn't know how to retreat safely. You didn't know how to absorb danger. All you knew was how to flail."
A student lowered their gaze.
Heiron's voice rose, sharp and unrelenting.
"Magical creatures—be they rodents, beetles, or godless things stitched from corrupted ether—don't care how much mana you can channel. They care only that you can't survive their bite. They don't give you time to swing. They don't wait for your chants. And most of them don't fight alone."
He let that sit.
"In the dungeon, you encountered just that. Magical vermin, yes, but organized. The Ember-Mites distracted you while the Crystal Roaches laced the walls with reflective illusions. The Dust Weavers set pollen traps. One moment of hesitation—one gap in your defense—and that was it."
He pointed at a student.
"You laughed when a Venom Locust flew into your hood. And yet its sting was potent enough to dull your mana for a full five minutes. Do you know what could've happened in five minutes? You could've died."
He turned to another.
"You said the Whisper Mouse was harmless. Did you hear what it summoned with its squeak? A pack of Spellsnatchers. Tiny devils that tore the runes off your gear."
Another.
"You ran from a single Scarab of Binding, thinking it was slow. Did you know that if it lands, it locks your limbs by rooting them with fungal growth? You were lucky I stepped in when I did."
He paused, letting the silence carry weight.
"I trained Gabe in defense only and forced him to train defense only because defense is the final line between life and death. Not mana. Not talent. Stamina. Awareness. Composure. You earn those with bruises, not praise."
The students stood frozen, their earlier whispers long extinguished.
Finally, Heiron relaxed slightly.
"This is why Gabe improved. Why he broke through to the Sixth Stage. Not because he had the strongest sword… but because he learned to endure."
As the words settled, the class began to murmur, whispering quietly among themselves. Wesley heard snatches of it all.
"I didn't know Instructor viewed it like that…"
"No wonder Gabe's defense was rock solid…"
"I thought we were supposed to be flashy—he never emphasized it that way before."
"Was that how he survived so easily in the dungeon?"
Wesley kept quiet. It wasn't his world to speak in. But he was fascinated—awed, even—by the seriousness of it all. Defense wasn't just about shields and armor. It was about outlasting. Outlasting even fear.
Then, Heiron raised a hand, still and commanding.
"Everyone—leave the arena."
There was a ripple of surprise, but no defiance.
"Except you, Gabe," Heiron added, turning back toward the boy. "You stay."
Gabe's eyes widened in realization. He straightened, his fists tightening slightly as his classmates began filing out.
One by one, the students walked past him, tossing farewells over their shoulders.
"Good luck, man."
"You got this, Gabe!"
"Don't die, yeah?"
"I wanna see you walk out with the same number of limbs."
"Hey, do your best, alright? And be cool."
"Try not to cry when it hits."
Gabe chuckled softly, giving them a thumbs-up as they left. Wesley watched him smile, but there was tension behind it—his stance alert now, his breathing controlled.
Once the arena cleared, Instructor Heiron turned to him again.
"You will defend only. No attacks until I give the order. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
Wesley's attention snapped upward as Heiron brought two fingers to his lips and blew a sharp whistle that rang across the stone and echoed beyond the coliseum roof.
A beat passed.
Then a shadow.
Massive. Sprawling. Something soared overhead, casting half the arena into darkness as it descended in a slow, powerful glide.
A colossal owl—its wings wider than a cottage roof—emerged from the sky, feathers sleek and glowing faintly with enchanted wind.
Its talons grasped a long metal-reinforced box, suspended by chains and glowing seals.
The owl didn't hoot—it was silent, ghostly, a thing that had no business in daylight.
It dropped the box gently at the center of the arena.
BOOM.
The ground shook slightly. Dust curled from beneath the impact.
Wesley felt the tremor in his legs, eyes wide.
From within the box, something growled.
Something wetly. Snarling. Scraping. Hungry.
Wesley's grip on the mop tightened.
Gabe instinctively placed his hand on his blade, lips pressed in a firm line. He was clearly nervous—but there was a fire in his eyes too. He wasn't running.
Instructor Heiron stepped forward once more, facing his lone student.
"Inside this container are five Level Five dungeon creatures—each one captured during my personal raid. You did not see me collect them because they were retrieved after I dismissed you. These are not average specimens. These are mutants. Survivors. Beasts born from pure adaptation."
He didn't describe them by name. He didn't need to.
"They've resisted containment spells. Fought each other. One of them mimicked my voice to lure me. Another used blood scent to escape standard cages. These are not monsters you find in the bestiary. These are monsters you remember in nightmares."
The air thickened with tension.
From beyond the bars, something hissed and dragged claws against steel. Something else thumped violently, making the box rock slightly.
The students who had lingered near the door whispered among themselves.
"Did he say mutants?"
"What kind of owl even carries that thing?"
"Was this really from our dungeon?"
Wesley heard it all, but his eyes never left Gabe. The young knight looked toward the box with grim resolve.
Instructor Heiron clapped his hands once.
"Choose randomly," he said, pointing at the crate. "Let's see which one you'll face first."
Wesley swallowed hard.
The arena felt darker now.