Hotpot steam warmed the dojo's air to a cozy haze.
Beef swished in the rolling broth to just the right doneness. Dipped in Bang's special sauce, it bloomed in fresh savor on the tongue.
Saitama's chopsticks practically left afterimages as he stuffed his mouth full. "So good! Old man, your beef beats the sale stuff!"
Bang smiled slightly. "If you like it, eat more. For those who practice the Way, replenishing the body's energy is fundamental."
"Brings back memories. The dojo used to be lively…"
Genos, as ever, stood attentively at Saitama's side, analyzing optimal cook-times for each item and then placing them into his teacher's bowl with precision.
"Teacher, based on my calculations, A5 wagyu held in the broth for 7.8 seconds maximizes its umami and tenderness."
Saitama's chewing slowed. He glanced at his meticulous disciple, then thought of something. After swallowing, he asked:
"You eat too… ah, no—Genos, in that body of yours, do you even have taste?"
"Please don't worry, Teacher," Genos replied. "When Dr. Kuseno designed this body, he fully accounted for everyday compatibility and gave me complete taste and digestive systems."
He punctuated the statement by popping a slice of beef into his mouth.
Lin Mo sat comfortably, taking his time with the food, quite relaxed.
With his Spirit enhanced, he could clearly sense each person's emotional waves—Saitama's simple joy, Genos's rigor, Bang's little schemes.
Honestly, he liked this atmosphere. No monsters, no world-ending threats—just friends, good food, and warm light.
These moments of quiet were more precious to him than any gain in strength.
After the hearty meal, Charanko swiftly tidied bowls and chopsticks and served fresh tea.
Bang sipped, eyes sweeping over the three, a glint of mischief barely hidden.
Lin Mo raised a brow, an ominous twinge—is the old man hatching something again?
"Gentlemen," Bang set the cup down with a crisp click, gathering everyone's attention.
"Since you've come to my Water Stream Rock Smashing Fist dojo, how can you not sample a house specialty?" His smile broadened—and held a shade of "up to no good."
"We've eaten and drunk. How about a little game to exercise the mind?"
"If I can't match their strength, I refuse to believe I'll lose at a game I've played since childhood," Bang thought, the impish old gremlin showing.
He produced three identical flawless white porcelain tea bowls and, from inside his robe, a tiny red bean.
He upturned the three bowls on the tatami in a row, then—in full view—placed the red bean under the middle one.
"The rules are simple." Bang set his hands on the outer bowls; his eyes sharpened.
"I will rapidly swap the bowls' positions. Your task is to keep track of the bean. When I stop, name which bowl it's under."
A classic shell game! Lin Mo's eyelid twitched.
But his heart eased. So long as it wasn't a match of fists, a little game would do no harm.
He watched Bang with interest. Nothing better to do; might as well humor the old man.
"Oh! Looks fun!" Saitama perked up at once.
Genos began analyzing: "Tracking fast-moving objects requires high visual persistence and dynamic capture. My sensors can capture at 240 frames per second—no theoretical problem."
"Then, I shall begin."
Bang's last word had barely fallen before his hands blurred into afterimages.
The three bowls seemed weightless under his touch, skittering, swapping, and bumping across the tatami, producing a dazzling cascade of clicks.
The whole thing took just three seconds. When Bang's hands stilled, the bowls sat serenely in their original positions.
He was blindingly fast—but these were no ordinary observers.
"Right side," Saitama said without hesitation, pointing to the bowl on the far right.
"I concur with Teacher," Genos nodded. "Seventeen swaps occurred, but the starting bowl holding the bean ended at the right."
Bang smiled faintly and lifted the right bowl.
Nothing underneath.
"What?!" Saitama and Genos blinked in unison.
Bang lifted the middle bowl; the red bean lay there, quiet as could be.
"During the exchanges, I transferred the bean to another bowl. You saw only what I meant you to see," Bang explained.
He chuckled—quite pleased with himself.
Saitama scratched his head. "Wow. Neat trick."
Bang's eyes gleamed as he looked back to the three. "Well? Another round?"
"Of course! Again!" Saitama's fighting spirit blazed. "This time I'll keep up!"
"Then—begin."
Bang's hands blurred again.
Faster than before. A flurry of white flickered before Lin Mo's eyes; in under a second, he had lost the plot completely.
I can't see squat…
He had no idea where the bean was.
Left? Middle? Right? One-in-three. He even suspected the old fox had palmed the bean.
The high-speed afterimages made his eyes ache. He blinked to ease the strain.
At that exact moment, an unforeseen accident occurred.
From a beam in the dojo—loosened with age—a rice-grain splinter, jarred by their movement, finally broke free.
Its fall was perfectly placed.
When Lin Mo shut and reopened his eyes, the tiny splinter landed right on the base rim of the leftmost bowl, then gently bounced aside along the slick curve.
The whole thing was over in a blink.
No one noticed it—except Lin Mo, by sheer happenstance.
"Stop." Bang's hands stilled.
Silence in the dojo.
Saitama spoke first again, frowning, then pointing right. "Right." His tone was less certain than last time.
Genos followed: "The starting bowl ended on the right again—that is certain."
"Though I did not capture evidence of the transfer, right has the highest probability."
All eyes turned to Lin Mo, waiting for his answer.
-------
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