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

Northwest of Bolton City, in the Back Bay area, on Federal Avenue.

As the enclave of Bolton's newly emerging elite, this neighborhood is a completely different world from Gooding Street.

A wide, tree-lined avenue leads directly to Central Park, lined with detached or semi-detached villas on both sides.

The exterior walls are made of brown sandstone, the railings are made of cast iron, and the pillars of the porch are covered with neatly trimmed ivy.

The streetlights are electric, bright and steady, illuminating every single stone slab on the sidewalk clearly.

There was no smell of coal smoke or horse manure in the air, only the fresh scent of the mowed lawn and the occasional sound of a piano drifting from one of the windows.

The people who can live here are generally from the finance, law, medical and education industries.

The family's annual income is between four thousand and ten thousand US dollars.

In front of a semi-detached brown sandstone villa, a brass nameplate is engraved with the surname Le Bang in cursive script.

Ah!

A piercing scream came from the second-floor bedroom, pierced through the tightly closed window, echoed for a moment on the quiet street, and was then dispersed by the night wind.

The man who was reading the newspaper in the downstairs living room suddenly stood up, scattering the newspaper all over the floor.

The woman in her pajamas rushed out of the walk-in closet, clutching a red shirt in her hand.

The two rushed up the stairs almost simultaneously and pushed open the door to the second-floor bedroom.

A blond youth knelt on the floor, his body trembling uncontrollably.

His back was inexplicably soaked in sewage, which corroded his skin beyond recognition.

The left eyeball protruded from its socket, hanging on the cheekbone, connected to a thin optic nerve, swaying slightly with trembling.

A large crater was smashed into the left side of his skull, and blood covered half of his face.

There was a fist-sized hole on the right side of his neck, with charred edges, as if it had been burned by some kind of high temperature.

Blood gushed from the hole, pooling into a dark red puddle on the floor.

"Jimmy! Jimmy! What's wrong with you!"

The respectable father rushed over and hugged his son's shoulders, his hands immediately becoming soaked in blood.

His voice trembled, and the color drained from his face at a visible speed.

The man turned and rushed downstairs to make a phone call, shouting the private doctor's name as he dialed, his voice trembling with tears.

The woman, who had some nursing experience, knelt beside her son, suppressing her fear, and pressed gauze tightly against the wound on his neck. The gauze was instantly soaked with blood and turned dark red.

LeBang knelt in the pool of blood, his eyes filled with terror.

He tried to speak; his lips moved, but only gurgling bubbles came from his throat.

Blood foam spilled from the corner of his mouth and dripped down his chin.

His vision began to blur, and the colors of the world faded little by little, from colorful to grayish-white, and then from grayish-white to black.

He regretted it.

He shouldn't have listened to the fraternity leader and gone to find that witch to curse that damned wild dog.

The man downplayed it, saying, "It's just a little bad luck for him, a bit of embarrassment."

He believed it.

He spent ten dollars, using his anger as a medium, to buy a curse.

He should have had a bright future ahead of him.

His father's business was booming, and his grades were good enough to make him a lawyer. After graduating, he opened a law firm in the Back Bay area and married a daughter from a good family.

He should never have crossed paths with someone like Evan Arkham.

He should have...

"Jimmy!!!"

The mother's heart-wrenching cries echoed through the villa, passing through the corridors and stairwells, drifting out of the half-open windows, and dissipating into the quiet and dignified night of Federal Avenue.

A young life has ended just like that.

The curse backfired.

Ten shows, twenty returns.

The price paid by the caster of a curse is always heavier than that paid by the cursed.

the other side.

Central Bolton, south of Copley Square, Clarendon Street.

A six-story upscale apartment building stands on the street corner, with light gray limestone exterior walls, dark oak window frames, and uniformed doormen guarding the ground floor porch.

The monthly rent here is enough for a family on Guding Street to live on for half a year.

In a spacious suite on the fifth floor, Price sat in a dark leather armchair, holding a stemmed glass in his hand.

The liquid in the glass was dark red and viscous, gleaming dimly in the firelight of the fireplace.

After listening to the young man's report, he nodded in response.

"This is not your problem. Go on."

The young man, who had been humiliated by Hill, bowed his head respectfully and silently left the room.

After the door closed, the female assistant emerged from the shadows beside the fireplace.

"I think Arkham is lying."

Her voice was low and flat, as if she were stating the conclusion of an experiment.

"Adolf's demon-hunting faction only moved here from Germany ten years ago, and they're not doing well."

"With insufficient funding and dwindling personnel, there are no more than five active members in Bolton City today."

"Given their current situation, it's unlikely they would plan ahead and place a reserve officer at the University of the Wise."

Pulis gently swirled the liquid in the glass, and the dark red wine left a layer of residue that slowly slid down the glass.

"Yes. But I underestimated this guy's sharpness."

He took a sip of his drink, leaving a thin layer of red on his lips.

"Unsurprisingly, she has also set her sights on Arkham, hoping to expand her manpower."

"Should we retaliate?" the female assistant asked.

Priss shook his head: "The Witchers are not our enemies."

"Since the other party is so reckless, they can serve as a stepping stone for us."

He produced a letter: "Night Owl has brought news that the Arkham family is indeed in trouble."

"This year's invitation to return home fell to him."

The female assistant pursed her pale lips: "Master, what should we do next?"

He placed the wine glass on the armrest, his fingers lightly tapping the rim, producing a soft tinkling sound.

"As long as we can keep getting his blood, that's fine."

"Have Eldin contact him."

"These lowlife witchers are all penniless; give them some benefits."

"It would be best if she could discover all the secrets of Arkham's body."

The female assistant nodded knowingly.

"clear."

She paused for a moment, her tone changing slightly.

"Master, Mr. Sap has sent word that he's short-handed."

Priss stopped tapping.

His brows furrowed, and a hint of undisguised disgust flashed in his light blue eyes behind his glasses.

There was a few seconds of silence.

"Let Ledo and the others go."

His voice was very soft, but every word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth.

He clenched his fist, and the wine glass, which was resting on the armrest, was bumped by his elbow, causing it to slosh around and almost spill the dark red liquid.

"Just bear with it a little longer."

The fire crackled in the fireplace, its orange light casting deep shadows on his pale face.

"As long as we can overcome the sunlight, we will no longer have to grovel before it."