The ten captains nearly toppled backward in fury.
Had the last shred of reason not held them back, they would have swarmed him on the spot and beaten the bastard half-paralyzed before anything else.
The bastard wore a face of innocent simplicity and honest sincerity, but only those caught in his game knew that every damn sentence was a pitfall, every sentence a hook!
How could anyone in this world be so despicable!
Just how had he cultivated that face of honest sincerity!?
Was it a gift, or had he achieved it through diligent, bitter practice?!
Swallowing a bellyful of anger, they stepped back and took turns drawing lots. As they drew, each said, "Thank you for your hard work, sir."
It was an utterly ordinary thing to say.
But after all this, why did saying it feel so stifling?
They felt stifled, little knowing that the teacher in charge of the draw felt even more frustrated than they did.
If you bastards don't want to greet me, then don't! Every last one of you grits your teeth to say, "Thank you for your hard work, sir." What fucking dog-shit luck is this!
Are you bastards greeting me, or taking your anger out on me?!
There really is no hurt without comparison. Now I know what's gold and what's rubble!
Once the draw was over, the teacher did something unusual: rather than leave immediately, he stood on the stage and said a few more words.
"There's something I hadn't intended to say, but I simply won't be satisfied until I get it off my chest."
The teacher held the empty drawing box, his face full of frustration.
"Our Central Plains' Dragon-Tiger Ranking tournament takes place once a year. Its original purpose was certainly excellent, but now, far too many things