I'm a proper student; I only take nine kinds of potions every day.

After confirming his physical condition, Evan went into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and splashed two handfuls of cold water on his face.

Water droplets dripped down his chin. He looked up and saw himself in the mirror.

Still thin.

His cheekbones are still somewhat prominent, and his cheeks are still somewhat sunken; he is far from being considered robust.

But compared to the ashen face in the mirror yesterday, which looked like it had just crawled out of a coffin, the change was visible to the naked eye.

His limbs have become noticeably thicker, and the forearms, where the outline of the ulna was previously visible, are now covered with a layer of firm and well-proportioned muscles—not exaggerated, but with clear lines.

When you clench your fist, the tendons in your forearm stretch like a guitar string, and something throbs powerfully under your skin.

"Such a big change in just one day. The power of the potion is terrifying."

After washing up, I changed into the gray shirt and patched tweed jacket, put on the repaired leather shoes, and finally my two feet were on the same level.

Put two mercury pills into your mouth.

You reversed the side effects of the mercury pills.

Your digestive ulcers have been relieved! 10% → 9%

Your brain nerve damage has been alleviated! 15% → 14%

Your oral cavity has been strengthened, and your physical constitution has been permanently increased by 0.001.

Although the potion can be digested in just 12 hours.

But Priss only allowed it to be eaten once a day, and Evan dared not eat more than that to avoid unnecessary suspicion.

I put on my schoolbag and head out to school.

Today he didn't go to take care of the Italian old man's fast food cart on the street corner.

A hungry body needs more fuel.

He turned into a slightly wider side street at the north end of Guding Street and pushed open the door of a cheap restaurant called "Lucky Bee".

The doorbell jingled, and a strong smell of cooking oil and the heat of food wafted out.

The restaurant was small, with a dozen or so wooden tables crammed together. The grease on the tables could never be completely wiped clean, no matter how many times it was wiped.

There were quite a few people inside, mostly dockworkers doing heavy physical labor, wearing overalls and canvas shirts with their sleeves rolled up to their elbows, revealing their tanned, muscular forearms.

They ate with their heads down as if they were completing a project, their forks and knives clanging on the tin plate, interspersed with indistinct conversations and occasional bursts of rough laughter.

The smell of sweat and the aroma of food mingled in the air, creating a scent that wasn't exactly pleasant, but strangely comforting.

Evan stopped in front of the counter and glanced at the menu board written in chalk on the wall.

A large piece of dark bread, a cup of black coffee, two sausages, two tomatoes, and a cup of milk.

Sixteen cents.

It cost three times more than the previous five-cent breakfast, but his body was now like a high-speed boiler, needing plenty of coal.

He didn't stand on ceremony when the food was served.

Break the black bread in half, soak one half in black coffee, and stuff the other half with a sausage into your mouth.

He bit into the tomato, and the sweet and sour juice exploded in his mouth. He then gulped it down with milk.

Your table manners aren't exactly elegant, but in this restaurant, no one will give you a second glance because of them.

Five minutes later, the plate was empty.

Ivan used the last piece of crust from the bread to wipe the grease off the plate, then put it in his mouth, chewed it, and swallowed it.

Then he stood up, slung his backpack over his shoulder, pushed open the restaurant door, and stepped into the cold morning air.

After passing through two alleys, I squeezed onto the trams traveling north and south.

The carriage was crowded as usual, but today his hand gripped the handrail firmly, and his body remained motionless amidst the shoving of the crowd.

The tram clanged and jingled as it passed the main road, and the early November morning light pierced through the buildings to the east.

Golden beams of light sliced ​​across the street, illuminating the tiny dust particles floating in the air.

Ivan stood in the carriage, the sunlight streaming through the window and falling on his face, warm and bright.

He squinted, and the corners of his mouth turned up slightly.

"The sun rises, and I am reborn."

……

Step off the tram and pass through the stone pillar gate of the University of the Wise.

Today's Ivan is completely different from yesterday's.

His steps were relaxed and steady, no longer carrying that flimsy feeling of being on the verge of falling.

Old Tom's repaired heels finally allowed both feet to step on the same level, making each step firm and the sound of the leather soles striking the stone pavement even and powerful.

He crossed the playground, went around the two teaching buildings, and pushed open the door of the main teaching building to enter the lobby on the first floor.

The hall is a tall, rectangular space with a polished marble floor and oil portraits of past principals hanging on the walls on both sides.

The twenty minutes before morning classes are the main battleground for students' social interaction.

Groups of young people were scattered throughout the hall, chatting, exchanging notes, and showing off their newly bought tie clips. The air was filled with the scents of hair wax, cologne, and the restlessness unique to young people.

As Ivan stepped into the hall, a flippant whistle came from his right.

Sharp, piercing, like the barking of a dog.

"Hey! Boy with a whore syndrome!"

The sound wasn't loud, but it traveled throughout the entire hall, reflected off the marble walls.

The students who were chatting fell silent for a second, then burst into laughter.

Some people covered their mouths, while others pointed openly in Evan's direction, their laughter spreading like ripples from that corner.

Ivan remained unfazed.

His gaze was fixed straight ahead, and he walked directly toward the stairs without pausing.

During his years in sales on Earth, he was once told to get out by a customer and dragged out of an office building by security guards.

The mockery of a group of college students who grew up with silver spoons in their mouths couldn't even scratch the surface of his emotions.

Just as he was about to step onto the first step, a tall figure walked up from the side and blocked his way.

"Hey, Arkham."

His voice carried a deliberately crafted friendliness, like a thumbtack wrapped in sugar.

"Thank you for your performance yesterday, which saved us from having to copy the text as punishment."

Ivan turned his head to look.

He wore a light blue shirt with a gold-plated collar pin, and his golden hair was neatly combed.

Kevins LeBon.

The student who was the first to be called on by Professor Mons yesterday, and who stood up and recited the second rule incorrectly.

It is said that his father was a successful importer in the eastern part of Bolton, and the family owned a detached house with a garden in the suburbs.

Ivan sized up the young man, who was half a head taller than him, and asked in a flat tone, "What is it?"

LeBon smiled, a smile that carried a condescending ease, as if he were teasing an animal in a cage.

"I'm throwing a fantastic party this weekend and I've invited the whole class."

He lowered his head slightly, leaned closer, lowered his voice, and spoke with a mocking tone.

"Guess who didn't receive an invitation?"

Ivan tilted his head, but didn't say anything.

LeBang straightened up and laughed loudly, looking up at the ground.

"It's you! The boy with 'whore syndrome'!"

He opened his arms as if to announce the answer to a brilliant joke.

Everyone thinks you're despicable and filthy! Hahaha!

Seven or eight male students and a few female students around them burst into laughter, and some clapped, as if they were watching a farcical segment of Wardwell's cabaret show.

Looking at the unrestrained smiles of these people, Evan felt as calm as a stagnant pool.

Classic American bullying has returned.

These prestigious universities have a strict hierarchy, and the competition between them is brutal and undisguised.

A large number of wealthy children and middle-class students are desperately trying to maintain their dignity and social circles.

Fraternities, private parties, bullying, isolation—these things, like Latin and chemical equations, are essential courses in college life.

It's obvious that standing out in Professor Mons' class yesterday has touched a nerve with these people.

A poor student wearing a patched jacket and a lowly person with syphilis dared to stand up and talk eloquently when they couldn't answer.

This is even more unforgivable than cheating on an exam.

As soon as LeBon finished speaking, Evan suddenly felt a gust of wind on his back.

Someone pounced on me from behind.

A thick, strong hand suddenly grabbed the strap of his backpack, with such force that it seemed to pull him down.

Ivan had sensed it long ago.

His hearing, enhanced by two aspirin reversals, is more acute than that of a normal person.

I could barely make out the sound of the person's leather shoes on the marble floor as they approached from behind, and the frequency of their heavy breathing.

He instinctively pulled his schoolbag back.

Tear!

The immense force of the resistance snapped one of the backpack straps off.

The sound of the canvas tearing was particularly jarring in the hall, revealing the grayish-white cotton thread underneath.

Ivan turned his head to look.

A blond young man, as strong as a wall, stood behind him, clutching half of the broken strap in his hand, a sinister grin still lingering on his face.

Thomson.

A rising star on the first-year rugby team, he is said to be able to push the training sled by himself.

His shoulders were as broad as a wardrobe, his neck as thick as his head, and the buttons on his school uniform shirt were so tight at his chest that they were about to pop open.

"What are you doing!"

Evan shouted, and at the same time quickly put his backpack behind him with both hands.

Snatching schoolbags and tearing up notebooks and textbooks are the most common forms of bullying here.

For a poor student, a notebook represents half a semester's worth of hard work. If it's ruined, it's ruined. There's no money to buy a new one, nor the time or connections to copy it again.

A hint of surprise flashed across Thomson's face.

He never expected that this sickly boy, who had vomited from running just a few days ago, would be strong enough to pull the schoolbag back from his hands.

The force of that confrontation was unlike that of a drug trial student.

But it was clear that these people came prepared.

Today, I'm determined to embarrass Evan in front of everyone.

Just as Evan took a step back, two people suddenly pounced on him from both sides.

A tattered blanket fell from the sky and covered them from above.

A rough, stiff blanket covered his head and upper body, instantly plunging his vision into darkness.

The blanket smelled musty and sweaty, and the fibers pricked my face, causing itching and pain.

He lost his sense of direction.

Then three pairs of thick arms simultaneously wrapped around him from three directions, like three iron hoops, locking him and the blanket tightly in place.

The arm strength of a rugby player is no joke; Evan felt like he was stuffed into an iron barrel and couldn't move.

"Hahaha! LeBon! Hurry!"

Laughter came from outside the blanket, tinged with excitement and malice.

Ivan struggled violently in the darkness, and then he saw.

A tube protruded from the hem of the blanket.

It is made of bronze, slender, and resembles the mouthpiece of a pipe.

Ivan's pupils contracted sharply. He knew immediately what it was.

The next second, he suddenly held his breath.

A thick plume of smoke billowed from the pipe, quickly spreading throughout the enclosed space enclosed by the blanket.