A Proper Student Who Only Drinks Nine Potions a Day

[Effect: After digestion is complete, you can obtain the complete Demon Hunter Profession.]

[Digestion Progress: 168 hours.]

[Do you wish to reverse the side effect?]

"Reverse!"

[Reversal Progress: 88 hours.]

After confirming the information on the panel, Evan bent over, clutching his stomach with both hands as large beads of sweat rolled down his forehead.

"Good grief, it hurts this much?"

Hill had still been immersed in the sorrow of carrying on her master's legacy, but the sight of Evan's reaction instantly replaced that sorrow with shock.

She crouched down and leaned closer, carefully examining Evan's face and arms.

"No festering, no vomiting blood, no black veins all over his face, no mutation."

Her voice rose higher and higher, her golden vertical pupils widening into circles.

"Just... a stomachache?"

Evan leaned against the tree trunk, his face flushed red and sweat pouring down like rain. His voice squeezed out through clenched teeth.

"Master, do you have any painkillers? I can't take this pain."

Hill came back to herself, straightened up, and planted her hands on her hips, her tone switching back to mentor mode.

"This is part of the transformation trial. You can't interfere with it using painkillers."

"The Demon Hunter Characteristic will reshape your digestive system, giving you stronger digestive abilities to withstand the corrosion of more potions in the future."

"It's a painful process, but one where you can feel new life. It usually lasts seven days."

"Over those seven days, you'll slowly digest the Beyonder Characteristic, and your body will gradually evolve."

After thinking for a moment, she added another sentence.

"Oh, right. Plenty of nutrition and high-intensity exercise can help speed up absorption."

Upon hearing that, Evan pushed himself upright from the tree trunk, drenched in sweat.

"Then I understand. I can endure it."

As long as people knew that their current pain would not harm their bodies and could even benefit them, their tolerance for pain rose considerably.

It was a worthwhile trade. Pain was just pain.

Seeing that Evan had not mutated, and that she had finally successfully passed down her master's Beyonder Characteristic, Hill visibly relaxed.

Her shoulders slumped, and her entire bearing shifted from that of a "stern Demon Hunter mentor" back to that of a "carefree young girl."

"Now, just digest it slowly. My current identity makes it inconvenient for me to contact you directly."

She patted Evan on the shoulder, much more gently this time.

"But I'll be watching over you from the shadows. Don't worry."

"Just keep living as you have been. Don't let anyone else notice anything unusual."

Though drenched in sweat from the pain, Evan still nodded seriously.

The two walked one after the other along the dirt path beneath the moonlight, heading toward the city.

Hill walked ahead. Her long silver hair drifted lightly in the night breeze, while the hilts of two swords protruded from behind her shoulders, drawing two parallel dark lines beneath the moonlight.

Evan followed behind, clutching his stomach. Every step felt as though someone were wringing his insides, yet he never stopped walking.

At an intersection on the outskirts of the city, they parted ways.

Hill waved at him, and her figure soon melted into the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlamps.

Evan walked alone into the lights of Gooding Street.

Chapter 24: The Price of a Curse, Ten Given, Twenty Returned

Northwest of Bolton City, Back Bay District, Federal Avenue.

As a residential area for Bolton City's newly risen elite class, this neighborhood was a completely different world from Gooding Street.

Broad, tree-lined avenues led straight to Central Park, flanked by rows of detached and semi-detached villas.

Brown sandstone walls, wrought-iron railings, and neatly trimmed ivy climbed over the porch columns.

The streetlights were electric, bright and steady, illuminating every paving stone on the sidewalks with perfect clarity.

There was no smell of coal smoke, no smell of horse manure—only the fresh scent of freshly cut lawns and the occasional piano melody drifting out from a window.

The people who lived here generally worked in finance, law, medicine, or education.

Their annual household incomes ranged from four thousand to ten thousand dollars.

Outside a semi-detached brownstone villa, a family name was engraved in cursive lettering on a brass plaque: Lebon.

"Ah!"

A shrill scream came from a second-floor bedroom, piercing the tightly shut windows and echoing through the quiet street for a moment before being carried away by the night wind.

The master of the house, who had been reading a newspaper in the downstairs sitting room, shot to his feet, scattering the newspaper across the floor.

The mistress of the house, dressed in loungewear, rushed out of the cloakroom with a red shirt still clutched in her hand.

The two of them rushed up the stairs almost simultaneously and shoved open the second-floor bedroom door.

A blond young man was kneeling on the floor, his body trembling without stop.

His back was soaked in inexplicable filthy water, which had corroded his skin beyond recognition.

His left eyeball had popped from its socket and hung against his cheekbone, connected by a thin optic nerve that swayed slightly with his trembling.

The left side of his skull had been smashed into a deep crater, blood covering half his face.

There was a fist-sized hole on the right side of his neck, its edges charred black as if burned by something intensely hot.

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

"Jimmy! Jimmy! What happened to you?"

The dignified father rushed over and grabbed his son's shoulders, his hands immediately soaked through with blood.

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

The master of the house turned and rushed downstairs to make a call, shouting the private doctor's name as he dialed, his voice breaking with sobs.

The mistress, who had some nursing knowledge, forced down her terror and knelt beside her son. She pressed gauze tightly against the wound on his neck, but the cloth was instantly drenched in blood and turned dark red.

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

He wanted to speak. His lips moved, but only gurgling bubbles came from his throat.

Bloody foam spilled from the corners of his mouth and dripped down his chin.

His vision began to blur. The colors of the world faded bit by bit, shifting from color to gray-white, then from gray-white to black.

He regretted it.

He should not have listened to that Brotherhood big brother and gone to find that Witch to curse that damned stray dog.

That big brother had made it sound trivial. "It'll just give him a little bad luck and make him embarrass himself."

He had believed him.

He had spent ten dollars and used his anger as the medium to purchase a curse.

He should have had a promising future.

His father's business was thriving. His grades were good enough for him to become a Lawyer, open a law firm in the Back Bay District after graduation, and marry the daughter of a good family.

He should never have had anything to do with someone like Evan Arkham.

He should have...

"Jimmy!!!"

His mother's heart-wrenching wail echoed through the villa, passed through the hallway and stairwell, drifted out the half-open window, and vanished into the quiet, respectable night of Federal Avenue.

A young life had ended just like that.

The curse had backfired.

Ten given, twenty returned.

The price paid by the caster was always heavier than the price paid by the cursed.

Elsewhere.

In central Bolton City, south of Copley Square, Clarendon Street.

A six-story luxury apartment building stood at the street corner, with pale gray limestone walls, dark oak window frames, and a uniformed doorman stationed beneath the ground-floor portico.

The monthly rent here was enough to support a Gooding Street family for half a year.

In a spacious fifth-floor suite, Pulis sat in a dark leather armchair, holding a stemmed glass.

The liquid in the glass was dark red and viscous, glimmering faintly in the fireplace's glow.

After listening to the young man standing before him, he gave a quiet grunt.

"This isn't your fault. Go."

The young man, who had suffered a setback at Hill's hands, respectfully lowered his head and silently left the room.

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

"I think Arkham is lying."

Her voice was low and flat, as though she were stating an experimental conclusion.

"Adolf's Demon Hunter Faction only moved here from Germany ten years ago, and they haven't been doing well."

"They lack funding, their members have dwindled, and there are no more than five active members in Bolton City now."

"Given their current situation, it's unlikely they could have arranged for a reserve at Sage University in advance."

Pulis gently swirled the liquid in his glass, and the dark red wine left a coating on the glass wall that slowly slid downward.

"Yes. Still, I underestimated that woman's sharpness."

He took a sip from the glass, leaving a thin layer of red on his lips.

"Unless something unexpected happens, she has her eye on Arkham as well. She wants to expand her manpower."

"Should we counter her?" the female assistant asked.

Pulis shook his head. "Demon Hunters are not our enemies."

"Since they are being so reckless, they can serve as our pathfinders."

He took out a letter. "Nighthawk sent word. The Arkham Family really does have a problem."

"This year's invitation to return home has fallen to him."

The female assistant pressed her pale lips together. "Master, what should we do next?"

He set the wineglass on the armrest and lightly tapped its rim with his fingers, producing faint dinging sounds.

"As long as we can keep obtaining his blood, that's enough."

"Send Eldin to make contact with him."

"Those lowlife Demon Hunters are all poor bastards. Give them some benefits."

"It would be best if she could test out every secret hidden within Arkham's body."

The female assistant nodded in understanding.

"Understood."

She paused, and her tone changed slightly.

"Master, Mr. Sapp sent word that he is short on manpower."

Pulis's fingers stopped tapping.