A Proper Student Who Only Drinks Nine Potions a Day

The thudding of leather boots on the cobblestones mingled with coarse curses.

He knew.

Zack had come.

Evan did not wait for them to come up and kick down the door.

He walked over and pulled open the apartment door himself.

Rather than let them kick it down and have to pay to repair it, he might as well save the expense.

Heavy, hurried footsteps echoed through the stairwell, drawing closer and closer.

Then the short, stocky Zack appeared at the top of the stairs.

Four young men of seventeen or eighteen followed behind him. They wore cheap work jackets and filthy boots, their faces carrying the particular ferocity and excitement of street punks.

Mary cowered at the very back. Her left cheek was badly swollen, her right arm hung in a sling made from a scarf, and her reddened eyes looked like a rabbit's as she continued cursing under her breath.

The moment Zack saw Evan standing in the doorway, he let out an enraged roar.

"Arkham! Are you fucking tired of living?"

After cursing, he raised his foot and kicked.

The kick was fast and vicious, aimed straight at Evan's stomach.

With the heightened senses granted by the Night Demon Potion, Evan's body was unbelievably nimble.

He slightly twisted at the waist and tilted his upper body less than three inches to the right. Zack's boot grazed the hem of his shirt and missed, while momentum carried the stocky man half a step forward.

Evan took a step back, steadied himself, and spoke calmly.

"Zack, this is my home, not yours."

Seeing Evan actually dare to dodge, Zack froze for a second, then laughed in extreme anger.

A twisted smile spread across his rough face. The distorted snake tattoo on his neck wriggled faintly with his clenched jaw muscles.

"You're fucking dead."

He waved a hand.

The four young thugs behind him moved at once.

Two pulled short iron rods from their jackets, one took out a length of lead pipe wrapped in cloth, and the last simply clenched his fists.

The four spread out in a fan shape and closed in on Evan from three directions.

With a physique of 1.9 and the Night Demon Potion's thirty-percent sensory enhancement, their movements seemed as slow as swimming underwater.

The first iron rod swung in from the right. Evan clearly saw its path, speed, and point of impact.

He sidestepped. The rod brushed past his ear and smashed into the doorframe, sending wood chips flying.

"Damn it! Pay for my doorframe!" Evan snapped.

Repairing that dent would cost at least eight cents!

As he spoke, his right fist shot out at the same time.

His fist struck the thug squarely on the jaw.

The strength granted by his 1.9 physique concentrated into a single fist. The thug's head snapped backward, his eyes rolled white, and he fell stiffly backward like a plank.

The back of his head hit the sofa with a dull thud. The iron rod flew from his hand and clattered into the living room.

The second thug brought the lead pipe down from the left.

Evan twisted aside, and the pipe smashed into where he had been standing, leaving a dent in the wooden floor.

He lifted his right foot and kicked the thug squarely in the chest.

The tremendous force sent the man flying straight out the door and into the stairwell railing. The railing gave a dangerous crack, and the man slid down it to the floor, clutching his chest and curling up like a shrimp.

The remaining two had not even reacted before Evan was already upon them.

His left hand seized one man's incoming fist. His fingers tightened, and he twisted hard.

The wrist joint cracked sharply, and the thug screamed as he dropped to one knee.

Evan released him and drove an elbow into the back of his neck. The man collapsed face-first onto the floor and did not move.

The last one turned and ran in fright. He had only taken two steps when Evan lunged after him and sent a flying kick into his lower back.

The man sprawled into the hallway, his chin striking the floor as a bloody tooth fell from his mouth.

Less than ten seconds had passed.

All four men were down.

Just as Evan turned around, his exceptionally sharp ears caught a faint sound.

Metal scraping.

It was soft and brief, but under the Night Demon Potion's sensory enhancement, it was as clear as if it had happened beside his ear.

It was the sound of a firearm's safety being clicked off.

Evan's body reacted faster than his mind.

He sprang out the door, braced both hands on the stairwell railing, flipped over it, and landed on the platform half a floor below.

His boots hit the ground with a heavy, steady sound, his knees bending slightly to absorb the impact.

Zack had only just drawn the short-barreled revolver from behind his waist. Before he could even raise the muzzle, Evan had vanished around the staircase bend.

Evan's voice came from below, echoing through the empty stairwell with deliberate, provocative flippancy.

"A bunch of useless trash! Come down if you've got the guts!"

Zack gripped the gun, the veins on his hand bulging as it trembled slightly.

But he did not fire.

Firing a gun in an apartment building would make this an entirely different matter.

The Gus Gang could throw its weight around in this neighborhood because the patrolmen at the police station who had accepted their favors turned a blind eye.

Beating people was fine. Collecting protection money was fine. But breaking into someone's home and shooting them dead would make the newspapers.

Once it hit the papers, City Hall would have to put on a show and send people to investigate. If they investigated, no one would have an easy time.

Zack had never been humiliated like this by a sickly weakling.

He shoved the gun back behind his waist and kicked one of his groaning underlings.

"Get up! All of you, get up!"

"Go get me more men!"

His voice echoed through the stairwell, savage and vicious.

"I'm breaking both his legs today!"

The Terrifying Misfortune and an Overestimated Physique

Evan ran out of the apartment building with Feather Fall, the cold wind pouring into his collar and making his shirt flap loudly.

He stood on the steps and looked out at the dim street illuminated by the streetlamps.

Gooding Street was as lively as ever at night.

Warm yellow light and the off-key sound of an accordion spilled from the taverns, while pushcart vendors at the street corners hawked their last bags of roasted chestnuts.

Workers in groups of three or five staggered out of the taverns, supporting one another as they made their way home.

The Night Demon Potion made his vision incredibly clear.

Not only could he see the places lit by streetlamps, but he could also see every detail in the dim corners untouched by light.

Deep in an alley, a thief crouched behind a pile of garbage, counting the loose change he had just stolen while his lips silently moved.

On the fire escape of the building opposite, a young man and woman pressed tightly together. The wind lifted the woman's skirt, and neither of them noticed.

At the far end of a dead-end alley, a homeless man sat against the wall with a hand-rolled cigarette between his fingers. Every time he took a drag, he tilted his head back and exhaled a sweet, cloying cloud of white smoke into the night sky.

The whole street seemed as though someone had lifted a curtain before his eyes, exposing everything hidden within the folds of darkness.

"The night is my home turf. Since that's the case, I'll have some fun with them."

"I'd better use this chance to make them believe I'm a transcendent too."

"That way, there'll be much less trouble in the future."

With that thought, Evan turned to look toward the entrance of the shoe repair shop downstairs.

Old Tom had not closed up yet. Sitting on a low stool by the kerosene light spilling from his shop, he was sewing the last few stitches into a boot.

He had clearly heard the commotion upstairs—the sounds of fighting, screams, and Zack's curses. In this old building, where soundproofing was practically nonexistent, every syllable came through clearly.

But the old man did not look up or glance around. Even the rhythm of his stitching remained unchanged.

Those who had lived on Gooding Street their whole lives knew when to play deaf and dumb.

"Old Tom, if Zack can't find me later, tell him I went to the old factory in the southern outskirts."

Evan lowered his voice as he spoke.

He was worried that if Zack could not find him, he might smash up the apartment in a fit of impotent rage.

As for whether Zack might beat him up and smash the apartment anyway, Evan had considered that possibility, but the odds were low.

In Zack and Mary's eyes, that apartment was already theirs for the taking. They only had to wait for Evan to breathe his last before putting it under their names.

There was no need for them to damage their future property just to vent their anger.

Old Tom's needle paused.

He did not look up. With his eyes lowered, he merely nodded faintly.

"Alright."

Just one word. No questions, no extra remarks.

Evan turned and broke into a run against the November wind.

The sound of his boots on the cobblestones quickly faded away, swallowed by the night wind and the clamor from the taverns.

A dozen or so seconds later, Zack emerged from the apartment building with a dark expression.

He looked left and right. The street was full of people coming and going, but Evan was nowhere to be seen.

That sickly weakling ran faster than a rabbit and had long since disappeared into the night.

"He said he went to the old factory in the southern outskirts."

Old Tom's voice came from across the street, neither loud nor soft, just enough for Zack to hear.

The old man still did not look up. His needle and thread continued passing through the boot leather in a steady rhythm.

Zack turned and glanced at him without asking further.

He gritted his teeth, and the snake tattoo on his neck twisted faintly with the movement of his jaw muscles.

"That bag of bones must have gone crazy from all the drugs."

The Gus Gang's influence in this neighborhood ran deep and tangled.

That filthy little clinic in the docks where Evan had been introduced to test drugs was also one of their businesses.

They knew exactly what Evan had done, what drugs he had taken, and how many times he had sold blood.

"Today, I'm sending you straight to hell."

Zack called to his men, and the group surged south down the street. Their boots struck the stone in a chaotic, hurried rhythm, like a pack of rabid dogs let loose from a cage.

After they left, the street briefly returned to peace.

In the dark alley opposite the apartment building, a figure leaned against the wall without moving.

He was an ordinary-looking young man in a dark work jacket, with his hat brim pulled low.

A faint dark-red gleam flashed in his eyes within the shadows, like two cigarette butts about to go out.

"What is this guy trying to do?"