After dinner, Team 7 trudged back to their hut. The moment they entered, Helma collapsed onto her bed with a groan.

Cough!

Ashan cleared his throat lightly, drawing their attention. “Helma, it’s not time to sleep. We need to revise our notes. There’s a test at the end of the week.”

“Can’t it wait? I didn’t understand a single thing,” Helma grimaced.

“Me neither. What was that rat-faction man blabbering about? Numbers and such,” Dris grumbled in agreement.

“It’s simpler than it seems. I’ve got the gist of it. Let me explain.” Ashan beckoned them all to sit, pulling the crumpled notes and quills from their pockets. “We’ll start with the language.”

Ashan began explaining the Sakhrein alphabet and vocabulary. ‘Roderic, Ballio, and Damara seem to have a natural knack for it. He noted. As the root language, its structure was surprisingly logical.

“That word you wrote is wrong!” Ballio pointed at Dris’s notes.

“What? How?” Dris snapped back.

“This is how it’s written.” Ballio showed him his own page.

Dris scratched his head in frustration. “They look the same! What’s the difference?”

“Imla, your writing is so neat!” Helma said, peering over with wide eyes.

“Thanks, I guess,” Imla replied, her expression deadpan.

“Did you two understand this?” Ashan asked Roderic and Damara.

They both nodded. “Good. Then I’ll teach you a shortcut for the calculations. Pay attention.”

He then launched into a quick lecture on mental math tricks. When he finished, the team stared at him, mouths agape in stunned silence.

Roderic finally fidgeted and asked the question on everyone’s mind. “Ashan… how do you know all this?”

Ashan paused, a faint, confident smile touching his lips. “I figured it out.”

‘Yeah. My past-life knowledge has its uses. If I couldn’t handle basic elementary math, my engineering degree would have been for nothing.’

“Figured… it out?” Ballio stuttered, utterly bewildered.

“Fuck it! Enough of this! The moon’s high. Let’s drink and sleep,” Dris declared, standing up to scoop water from the clay pitcher.

“Yeah, I’m thirsty too,” Helma said, following suit.

As the team drank, Damara shook the nearly empty pitcher. “Guys, it’s almost empty. Who’s filling it up?”

A heavy silence fell. They all glanced at each other, no one volunteering.

“Well,” Helma began, a sly look on her face, “this type of manual labor—no, I mean, this type of job—should be done by the strong, manly boys. Don’t you agree, sisters?”

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“True words!” Damara chimed in. Imla nodded in silent agreement.

Dris scoffed. “Then you three can fetch another pitcher for yourselves.”

“Wait, let’s not fight,” Roderic interjected, trying to mediate. “Ashan, any ideas?”

“Hmm… How about this?” Ashan said. “We take turns. We’ll decide the order by playing a ‘game’. The winner decides the roster.”

“What game?” Ballio asked, intrigued. Ears perked up around the hut.

Ashan smiled. “Rock, Paper, Scissors. I invented it but never had anyone to play with. The rules are simple.”

‘There’s no shame in plagiarism. Who’s going to sue me? Even if there’s another reincarnator here, they’ll know their senior has already arrived.’ He explained the rules without a hint of shame.

Once again, the team was shocked by Ashan’s strange invention. “Amazing! How do you think of these things?” Dris said, practicing the shapes with his hands.

“But there are seven of us. How do we play?” Imla asked, ever practical.

“I’ll play last,” Ashan explained. “The six of you will split into three pairs. The three winners will then play, and I’ll join to make two pairs. The final two play for victory. The winner sets the pitcher-filling order.”

A mini-tournament commenced. The pairs were Dris vs. Roderic, Ballio vs. Helma, and Damara vs. Imla. After a few intense minutes, the winners were Dris, Ballio, and Imla.

“My turn,” Ashan said, pairing with Imla.

“Ready?” Imla asked, deadly serious.

‘Born ready.’ “I am.” Ashan started the rhythmic hand wave.

‘Viksana!’

Faint grayish-white swirls stirred in his eyes. He glimpsed a fragment of intent, a future action.

Three… two… one!

Imla threw scissors. Ashan’s Rock smashed down.

He won effortlessly.

‘Always use your full power, no matter how trivial the opponent.’

The final round was Ashan vs. Dris.

“Hey, I’m going to beat you at your own game!” Dris grinned confidently.

His confidence shattered seconds later when Ashan’s paper covered his rock. “How? Another round! I can win!” Dris scowled.

Ashan patted his shoulder. “Sure. But first, fill the pitcher.”

Roderic snickered. “Serves you right!”

Dris’s teeth clattered with frustration as he stormed out of the hut, pitcher in hand.

“Ashan, is it wise to send Dris out alone?” Imla asked, a note of concern in her voice.

“What’s the problem?” Roderic asked, confused.

‘Did she catch on?’ “Let’s wait and see,” Ashan replied calmly.

They didn’t have to wait long. Loud murmurs erupted from outside their hut.

Ashan chuckled. “Let’s check it out.”

They stepped outside to find a small crowd whispering. Dris stood fuming. A boy from another team was clutching his face, surrounded by his mates.

“You want some more?” Dris clenched his fist.

“What the fuck did you do?” Roderic cursed.

The boy pointed an accusing finger. “Your fucking teammate punched me while I was filling my bucket! And this morning, he shoved me out of the bathhouse!”

‘Oh? Team 13. Perfect. I sent Dris out hoping for trouble, but this is ideal. Now I can solidify my leadership. A bold front is the best deterrent. Fortune favors the bold.’

The olive-skinned boy from Ashan’s duel stepped forward, a grin on his face. “Everyone saw him punch my teammate. An apology is the least you can do.”

“This bitch is asking for a beating!” Dris raised his fist but stopped mid-swing.

Ashan’s hand landed on his shoulder. “Dris.”

“Shh. Stand back.” Ashan walked forward calmly.

The boy’s grin faltered. “I assume you’re the leader. Control your dog and make him apologize.”

“First, introductions. I’m Ashan, leader of Team 7.” His team members didn’t contradict him.

“I’m Srish, leader of Team 13.”

Ashan crossed his arms, fixing Srish with a sharp, cold stare. “Then, Srish, son of a bear-fucked mother, take your pack and go back to your hut.”

Silence. Then, a snicker. Then, Dris burst into roaring laughter. “Hahaha! Ashan, that’s a good one!”

“Oh, my stomach!” Dris clutched his sides. “Tears of joy!”

“Ashan, you shouldn’t badmouth people’s mothers, even if they were fucked by a bear!” Roderic howled. Ballio joined in, tears streaming down his face.

“Gosh, boys!” Damara giggled, the other girls covering their smiles.

The laughter spread through the crowd like wildfire. “His face does look a bit like a bear’s…” someone whispered.

“You bastard!” Srish’s face turned bright red, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

Ashan said nothing, only maintained his cold, unblinking stare.

“You’ll regret this!” Srish spat out, before turning and fleeing in humiliation, his team scrambling after him. The crowd dispersed, the candidates chuckling; after a day of trials, the drama was a welcome distraction.

“Thanks for the backup. And that was a hell of a counter,” Dris said, patting Ashan’s back.

“We’ll talk inside. Now, go fill the pitcher,” Ashan said with a smile.

Dris clicked his tongue. “What a killjoy,” he grumbled, stomping off to finally complete his task.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep