Chaos reigned in the bathhouse.

A rush of half-naked boys scrambled for the fifty stone chambers, water sloshing everywhere.

The bold, like Dris, simply shoved others aside to claim a spot.

Ashan observed the scene, his eyes catching on the practical marvel: water flowing steadily from grooves in the cave walls into large stone basins.

‘How is that working? Sorcery or advanced engineering?’

“It sucks, right?” Rodric said, clicking his tongue as he and Ballio moved to stand near Ashan.

Ashan measured them with a glance.

“Yeah, it sucks. Kidnapped, thrown into hell. But what’s the alternative? Lying dead in a ditch somewhere?”

Ballio ventured a question, his voice hushed. “Ashan… do you hate them? For doing this to us?”

A light chuckle escaped Ashan’s lips. “Hate? Hate is a luxury for people with power. I’m just grateful.”

Rodric and Ballio stared, stunned.

‘Grateful?’ Rodric’s mind raced. ‘He’s not just surviving; he’s planning. He sees this as an opportunity. Aligning with him is the smart move.’

‘Fascinated by the power, but terrified of dying,’ Ballio thought, his own fear laid bare.

A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Ashan’s lips.

For a split second, grayish-white swirls flickered in his eyes. ‘Good. They’re thinkers, not just frightened sheep. By showing ambition, I make myself a leader. A protector. Win their trust by showing, not telling.’

“Let’s bathe. Time’s short,” Ashan said, cutting the moment short.

He found an empty chamber. The water was bitingly cold, a shock that jolted him fully awake. ‘No soap. Second on the priority list after flush toilets.’

He washed and dried with speed, pulling on the uniform—a pitch-black, half-sleeved robe that left the serpent tattoo on his shoulder visible.

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The white stripes across the chest felt like a brand.

Back at the hut, the sun’s first rays pierced the cavern.

Rodric, Ballio, and the girls were there, stowing their towels.

“We need to hurry! Everyone’s already lining up!” Imla said, her voice tight with fear.

“Where’s Dris?” Rodric asked.

“Saw him head to the lines already,” Ballio replied.

Rodric scowled. “What’s his problem?”

“Easy,” Ashan said, lightly tapping Rodric’s back.

“This is hard on everyone. Let’s just go.” The gesture was calculated—a show of calm leadership.

They ran to the gathering area. Most candidates were already in ragged lines, but dozens were still missing.

“Ashan, what do you think we’ll have to do?” Ballio whispered, drawing curious glances from the others.

‘If I knew, I’d be running this place,’ Ashan quipped internally. Outwardly, he wore a thoughtful expression. “Waking us this early? Probably some kind of conditioning. Morning exercise.”

Before Ballio could ask more, a lanky man in a gray, snail-adorned cloak addressed them. His voice was deceptively lazy.

“Good morning, candidates. I am Instructor Vael Orrak of the Snail Faction, House of Sloth. This class builds stamina. Your task is simple: ten laps around the hall within one hour. Fail, and you skip breakfast. Pace yourselves. Begin.”

“Yes, Instructor!”

The run was a brutal test of endurance.

Ashan’s lungs burned after just four laps. He pushed on, watching Instructor Vael. The man moved with a slow, deliberate gait that somehow covered ground with terrifying speed.

“Who said you could stop?” Vael’s hand slapped a boy’s back with a sharp crack. The boy stumbled. “Start again.”

This happened repeatedly.

The “Snail” was the fastest thing in the hall.

***

GONG!

The bell rang.

Ashan collapsed, panting, onto the hard ground.

Only about a hundred candidates had finished. His whole team had made it, surprisingly including Helma.

“Pathetic,” Instructor Vael drawled, surveying the exhausted group. “Those who finished, proceed to the mess hall. The rest? Three more laps. Dismissed.”

The mess hall was a large, dimly lit building smelling of wood smoke and food. An elderly woman, Chef Mai, explained the rules: self-service on banana leaves, fifteen minutes to eat.

Ashan collected his leaf and received his breakfast from a server named Baret: two bananas and a handful of grapes. It was meager, but it was fuel.

His team sat together, eating in tired silence. Dris was conspicuously absent. There was no energy for talk.

***

GONG!

The bell chimed again, signaling the end of the meal.

The candidates moved like zombies toward the classroom building, a sturdy structure of wood and stone. The air inside was thick with the scent of incense.

A woman’s sharp voice cut through the murmurs.

“Take your seats. Now.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep