I'm a Serious Student, I Only Drink Nine Magic Potions a Day

He narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly.

"The sun has risen. I have been reborn."

He got off the tram and passed through the stone-pillared gates of Sage University.

Today's Evan was completely different from yesterday's.

His steps were calm and steady, no longer carrying that unsteady feeling as though he might collapse at any moment.

The heels Old Tom had repaired finally put both of his feet on the same level. Every step landed solidly, the soles of his leather shoes striking the flagstones with an even, forceful rhythm.

He crossed the courtyard, went around two classroom buildings, pushed open the doors to the main building, and entered the first-floor lobby.

The lobby was a high-ceilinged rectangular space, its marble floor polished to a shine, with oil portraits of former presidents hanging along both walls.

The twenty minutes before morning classes were the students' main social battleground.

Groups of three or five young people were scattered throughout the lobby, chatting, exchanging notes, showing off newly bought tie clips. The air was thick with pomade, cologne, and the restless energy unique to youth.

The moment Evan stepped into the lobby, a frivolous whistle came from the right.

Sharp and piercing, as though someone were calling a dog.

"Hey! Syphilis boy!"

The voice was not loud, but the marble walls carried it through the entire lobby.

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

Some covered their mouths. Others openly pointed in Evan's direction. The laughter spread outward from that corner like ripples.

Evan's expression did not change.

His gaze remained fixed ahead, and his steps did not pause as he headed straight for the stairs.

Back when he had worked in sales on Earth, clients had cursed at him to get lost right to his face, and security guards had dragged him out of office buildings.

The mockery of a group of college students raised with silver spoons could not even scratch the surface of his emotions.

Just as he was about to step onto the first stair, a tall figure came over from the side and blocked his path.

"Hey, Arkham."

There was a deliberately friendly note in the voice, like a thumbtack hidden beneath sugarcoating.

"Thanks for your performance yesterday. You saved us from having to copy out punishment lines."

Evan turned to look.

A pale blue shirt, a gold-plated collar pin, and blond hair combed so neatly that not a strand was out of place.

Kevins Lebon.

The student Professor Mons had called on first yesterday, the one who had stood up and recited the second rule incorrectly.

Rumor had it that his father was a fairly successful importer in the eastern district of Bolton City, and that the family owned a detached house with a garden in the suburbs.

Evan looked over the young man, who was half a head taller than him, and said evenly, "What do you want?"

Lebon smiled. There was a lofty ease in that smile, as though he were teasing an animal trapped in a cage.

"I'm throwing an amazing party this weekend. The whole class has been invited."

He lowered his head slightly, leaned closer, and dropped his voice, his tone brimming with mockery.

"Guess who didn't get an invitation?"

Evan tilted his head and said nothing.

Lebon straightened up and threw back his head with a laugh.

"You! Syphilis boy!"

He spread his arms as though announcing the punchline to a brilliant joke.

"Everyone thinks you're cheap. Everyone thinks you're filthy! Hahaha!"

Seven or eight male students and several female students around them laughed on cue. Someone even started clapping, as if they were watching a funny skit in a vaudeville revue.

Evan looked at their unrestrained grins, his heart as still as a stagnant pool.

Classic American bullying. Here it was.

The hierarchy at this prestigious university was strict, and the competition between students was brutally undisguised.

A great many rich kids and middle-class students desperately fought to preserve their own dignity and social circles.

Fraternities, private parties, bullying, isolation—like Latin and chemical equations, they were all required courses of college life.

Clearly, showing off in Professor Mons's class yesterday had already struck a nerve with these people.

A poor student in a patched jacket, an untouchable with syphilis, dared to stand up and speak eloquently when they could not answer?

That was even more unforgivable than cheating on an exam.

The moment Lebon finished speaking, Evan felt a gust of wind at his back.

Someone lunged at him from behind.

A thick hand suddenly grabbed the strap of his backpack, pulling with enough force to yank him over completely.

Evan had sensed it long ago.

His hearing had been sharpened twice by aspirin reversals, making it somewhat keener than an ordinary person's.

He could barely make out the sound of leather shoes stepping across the marble as the person approached from behind, as well as the rhythm of his heavy breathing.

He instinctively yanked his backpack back.

Rip!

The powerful struggle tore one of the backpack straps clean off.

The sound of ripping canvas was especially harsh in the lobby, exposing the gray-white cotton threads beneath.

Evan turned around.

A blond young man built like a wall stood behind him, gripping half of the broken strap in one hand. A vicious grin still hung on his face, too late to hide.

Thomson.

A famous rookie on the freshman football team. Rumor had it that he could push a training tackling sled all by himself.

His shoulders were as wide as a wardrobe, his neck nearly as thick as his head, and the buttons of his school-uniform shirt were stretched so tight across his chest that they looked ready to pop.

"What are you doing?!"

Evan shouted as both hands swiftly pulled the backpack behind him protectively.

Snatching backpacks and tearing up notes and textbooks were the most common bullying tactics here.

For a poor student, a notebook represented half a semester of hard work. Once it was ruined, it was ruined. There was no money to buy another one, and no time or connections to copy everything again.

A flicker of surprise crossed Thomson's face.

He had not expected this sickly weakling, who could run until he vomited just a few days ago, to have enough strength to yank the backpack back from him.

The force of that struggle was not something a test-subject student should have been capable of.

But clearly, these people had come prepared.

Today, they were determined to humiliate Evan in public.

Just as Evan took a step back, two people suddenly lunged at him from behind, one from either side.

A worn-out blanket dropped from above and covered him from head to toe.

The coarse, stiff wool blanket covered his head and upper body, instantly turning his vision pitch-black.

It smelled of mildew and sweat, its fibers scratching against his face, itchy and painful.

He lost his sense of direction.

Then three pairs of thick arms clamped down on him from three directions at once, like iron hoops, locking him and the blanket tightly in place.

The arm strength of football players was no joke. Evan felt as though he had been stuffed into an iron barrel, unable to move.

"Hahaha! Lebon! Hurry!"

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

Evan struggled violently in the darkness, then saw it.

A tube had been inserted beneath the hem of the blanket.

It was copper, thin and long, like the mouthpiece of a pipe.

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

The next second, he held his breath.

A dense cloud of smoke poured from the tube, rapidly filling the sealed space enclosed by the blanket.

Chapter 14: No-Holds-Barred Fighting Techniques

The sharp scent of tobacco mixed with something even more pungent, making tears spring into Evan's eyes at once.

A burst of wild laughter erupted outside the blanket.

"Hahahahaha!"

"Let syphilis boy have a taste of smoked meat!"

The laughter echoed through the marble lobby, sharp and grating.

Inside the blanket, Evan's eyes were bloodshot, veins spreading across his eyeballs.

Not because of the smoke.

Because of rage.

With a constitution of 1.003, he was no match for three football players.

Their thick arms crossed around him, binding him as tightly as rope. Every struggle was crushed by even greater force.

But anger was anger. His mind had not stopped working.

The twenty-nine-year-old soul from Earth had survived in society and had considerable experience with street fights.

He had even practiced genuine no-holds-barred fighting for a period of time.

During the struggle just now, he had already roughly figured out the positions of the three people and the directions in which they were applying force.

Both of his arms were pinned, unable to exert strength.

But his hands could still move.

In the next instant, his right hand swiftly groped around the cramped space, his fingertips touching something soft and round.

He clenched it.

Then twisted it viciously.

"AAAAAHHHH!!"

A heart-rending scream exploded to his right, shrill enough to nearly change pitch, like Tom the cat getting his tail stepped on.

The encirclement formed by the three pairs of arms instantly broke open. The force on his right vanished abruptly.

Evan did not hesitate for a second.

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

All of his weight, along with all of his rage, came down on that single point.

"Damn it! My shoe! My foot!"

Another scream rang out.

Two people let go, and the encirclement completely collapsed.

Taking advantage of the opening, Evan opened his mouth and let out a beastlike howl from the depths of his chest.

"Awooo!"