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

The pungent smell of tobacco mixed with something even more acrid made Ivan's eyes instantly well up with tears.

A burst of wild laughter erupted outside the blanket.

"Hahahahaha!"

"Let the boy with the prostitute's disease taste smoked meat!"

Laughter echoed through the marble hall, sharp and shrill.

Inside the blanket, Evan's eyes were bloodshot, his eyeballs filled with blood vessels.

It wasn't because of the smoke.

It's because of anger.

His 1.003 physique made him no match for the three rugby players.

Their thick arms crossed and wrapped around him, as if they had tied him up tightly with rope, and every struggle was suppressed by an even greater force.

But anger aside, the brain simply stopped functioning.

The 29-year-old soul on Earth had experience in the underworld and was quite skilled in street fighting.

Furthermore, he had actually practiced unrestricted combat for a period of time.

During the struggle, he had roughly figured out the positions of the three people and the direction of their force.

Both arms were restrained, making it impossible to exert any force.

But the palm can move.

In the next instant, his right hand quickly groped around in the confined space, and his fingertips touched a soft, spherical part.

He gripped it tightly.

Then twist it hard.

"Aaaaaah!!"

A heart-wrenching scream rang out from his right, the voice so high-pitched it was almost distorted, like Tom the cat whose tail had been stepped on.

The encirclement formed by the three arms suddenly broke open, and the power on the right side vanished abruptly.

Ivan did not hesitate at all.

He raised his right foot, aimed it at the instep of the person on his left, and stomped down hard on the heel of the hard leather shoe that Old Tom had just repaired.

All of my weight, plus my anger, was concentrated on that one spot.

"Damn it! My shoes! My feet!"

Another scream.

The two men released their grip, and the encirclement completely collapsed.

Taking advantage of the moment, Evan opened his mouth and let out a wild, beast-like howl from the deepest part of his chest.

"Awoo!"

The sound didn't seem to come from a human throat.

Sharp, insane, and full of reckless aggression.

This is a technique from unrestricted combat: in street fights, a sufficiently frenzied howl is often more effective than a punch in deterring an opponent.

Because normal people don't make that kind of sound; only truly reckless madmen would.

The actual roaring effect was much better than Ivan had expected.

The brain damage caused by the drug trial seemed to have left Ivan's brains a bit foggy, rendering his roar utterly devoid of any authority.

Instead, it was filled with the bizarre and the insane.

The last person's arm loosened.

Ivan yanked off the blanket, and cold air and light rushed in at the same time.

His hair was sticking up in a tangled mess from static electricity, his face was flushed red, and his eyes were bloodshot, making him look like a demon who had just crawled out of hell.

He seemed to have entered a special state, muttering to himself uncontrollably.

"Hehe... I must survive..."

His gaze instantly locked onto LeBon.

The blond youth in the light blue shirt was squatting two steps away, still holding the copper pipe in his hand, his lips close to the pipe opening, and the smile on his face hadn't yet faded.

Ivan raised the heavy backpack full of textbooks with both hands and slammed it down on LeBon's head like a sledgehammer.

"whee……"

The chemistry textbook, physics textbook, notebook, and tin pencil case in the schoolbag weighed at least ten pounds (a unit of measurement; from now on, one pound equals one jin).

boom!

A muffled thud.

The bottom of the backpack was right in front of LeBon's forehead.

The copper pipe flew from his hand and bounced twice on the marble floor.

LeBon let out a short scream, covered his forehead with both hands and squatted down, blood seeping from between his fingers.

Thomson, enraged, strode forward to charge.

Ivan turned around to face him.

Then he did something that no one expected.

He coughed hard from deep in his throat, bringing up a glob of phlegm from his trachea, and then spat it precisely into Thomson's face.

The sticky substance, with its stringy texture, slapped onto Thomson's right cheek.

"Welcome to the French Acne Boys Club, hehehe..."

Ivan's voice was strange and absurd, his face was flushed, his eyes were wide open, and a twisted smile was on his lips.

He didn't look like an eighteen-year-old college student; he looked more like one of those desperate outlaws in the alleys of Guding Street who would risk everything.

Thomson's face turned pale instantly.

It wasn't that I was hurt by the beating, it was that I was scared.

Syphilis, French pox, the cursed...

These words exploded in his mind like a bomb.

He comes from a middle-class background, attended a prestigious university, was a promising football prospect, and was the pride of his entire family.

If he were to contract this disease, even just a rumor, everything would be over for him.

He hurriedly stepped back, frantically wiping his face with one hand and shielding himself with the other.

Ivan gave him no chance to catch his breath.

He stepped forward, used his waist and hips to generate power, and sprang up with his right leg, delivering a flying kick that struck Thomson squarely in the abdomen.

The kick delivered by someone with a physique of 1.003 was far more powerful than what a sickly person should have.

Thomson's wall-like body was kicked so hard that he staggered three steps backward, his heels hitting the edge of the steps.

He fell backward onto the stairs, his tailbone hitting the edge of the marble step with a dull thud.

All four people were injured.

One of them was curled up on the ground, clutching his groin, his face pale, his lips trembling but unable to make a sound.

One of them, clutching his leg, limped backward.

LeBon squatted on the ground, covering his bleeding forehead, tears and blood mingling and flowing down his face.

Thomson lay on the steps, wiping his face, his expression one of utter disbelief.

The entire hall was deathly silent.

Everyone was stunned.

The students, who were just laughing and joking, now stood with their mouths agape, as if someone had pressed the pause button.

Ivan stood in the center of the hall, his chest heaving violently, his breathing heavy.

He bent down to pick up his scattered schoolbag from the ground, opened the outer pocket, pulled out a pen with his right hand, and a steel compass with his left.

The nibs of the pen and the tips of the compass gleamed coldly under the hall lights.

Holding the two items, he turned to LeBon, who was covering his forehead and trying to stand up.

"I'll give you two red buffs!"

The voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying an undisguised murderous intent.

LeBon looked up and saw Evan's face through the blood between his fingers.

Those bloodshot eyes, those flushed cheeks, that twisted smile, and those two sharp, gleaming objects in his hand.

He didn't see a classmate; he saw a madman who could kill someone at any moment.

A dark water stain appeared in the crotch area of ​​LeBon's pants.

He let out a raucous wail, turned and ran as fast as he could, the gilded collar pin flying off his collar as he ran.

It landed on the marble floor with a clatter, was stepped on, and slid a long way away.

Ivan took two steps, then stopped and turned to look at Thomson on the steps.

The football rookie made eye contact with him.

In that instant, Thomson saw something in Ivan's eyes that sent chills down his spine.

That wasn't anger; he'd seen anger before.

It's something deeper, more primal, like a wild beast driven to the brink of death, no longer caring about its own demise, only about whether it can bite off a piece of flesh from its opponent before it dies.

He's just here to bully a sickly guy and have some fun.

I'm not here to risk my life.

He has a bright future ahead of him: a rugby scholarship, his father's business, and the expectations of his family.

These things cannot be entrusted to a madman.

Thomson scrambled to his feet on the steps, turned and ran, his heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor as he ran and shouted.

"Arkham has gone mad! The Arkhams have gone berserk again!"

The sound grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared around the corner of the corridor.

The remaining two, one clutching his groin and the other holding his foot, had already scrambled away and disappeared while Evan was chasing LeBron and Thomson.

Only Evan remained in the center of the hall.

He stood there, holding a pen in his right hand and a compass in his left, his chest heaving violently.

Sweat slid down his forehead and dripped onto the marble floor.

He turned around and faced the students in the hall who were still in a daze.

Men and women, wearing three-piece suits and tie clips, everyone was staring at him, their eyes filled with shock and fear.

"Don't you dare mess with me again."

Ivan's voice was hoarse yet full of energy, echoing between the marble walls.

"Four against one, and they still can't win. A bunch of useless trash."

Several girls were so frightened by the shout that they burst into tears on the spot, covering their mouths and shrinking back into the crowd.

The boys all took a step back, none of them daring to meet his gaze.

The sound of hurried footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.

Several teachers finally arrived.

They rushed into the hall and found it in complete disarray.

Scattered on the ground were a tattered blanket, a copper pipe, a gilded lapel pin, and several textbooks that had been trampled on.

There were a few drops of blood on the marble floor, stretching from the center of the hall to the corner of the corridor.

In the very center of the hall, a thin young man wearing a patched jacket stood alone.

His hands were stained with blood, his right hand held a pen, and his left hand held a compass. His face was flushed, his breathing was heavy, and the bloodshot in his eyes had not yet subsided.

"Student! Drop your weapon immediately!"

The lead teacher reprimanded sternly, his voice clearly tense.

Ibn instinctively raised his hand.

His expression returned to calm within seconds, and he spoke, panting heavily.

"You've misunderstood, teacher. This isn't a weapon; it's stationery."

His voice was steady and clear, even with a hint of politeness.

"Besides, I'm the one who's being bullied."