I'm a Proper Student, Only Taking Nine Potions a Day: Chapter 3

Evan flexed his fingers and felt some of the numbness in his fingertips recede.

The potion took effect incredibly fast!

"Instant effect? That really is a potion!"

Just as Evan was marveling at it...

A violent wave of dizziness poured down from the top of his head, as if someone had shoved his head underwater.

Cold sweat instantly soaked across his back, plastering his shirt to his spine, wet and chilly.

[Hypoglycemia: 30%... 40%... 51%...]

Red warning text appeared on the panel.

"The potion's working?"

His constitution was increasing, his body was rebuilding, and rebuilding required fuel.

That black mud pill was consuming his already meager blood sugar reserves at an alarming rate.

Along with the dizziness, Evan could indeed feel something changing deep within his body.

His muscle fibers trembled faintly, and a fine, aching soreness spread through his bones. It was a strange sensation where pain and growth coexisted.

His body was growing stronger, but if his blood sugar hit zero first, he would pass out before he could benefit from it.

He struggled to rise from his chair. His knees gave out, and he nearly dropped to the floor, only steadying himself by grabbing the edge of the table.

Then he staggered toward the bedroom door. The thin wooden door, its holes patched with old newspapers, banged beneath his hand and nearly came off its rusty hinges.

The living room was narrow, only five or six steps across, but walking through it felt like fording a river.

The floorboards creaked beneath him, every plank seeming to debate whether to snap apart.

The kitchen had no door, only a narrow entrance half-covered by a floral cloth curtain.

He yanked the curtain aside and plunged in.

His palm shook violently as he pulled open the peeling, cracked cabinet door.

The hinge let out a shrill scream. White paint flaked off the door like scales, scattering across the stove.

His hand fumbled through the cabinet, knocking over an empty tin can before finally grabbing the battered cookie tin.

The word "Unida" printed on the tin had worn down to a vague outline.

He twisted off the lid. There were no cookies inside, only half a tin of brown sugar, damp and clumped together.

He shoved his hand directly inside, grabbed a large handful, and stuffed it into his mouth.

The cloying sweetness of the brown sugar filled his mouth, rough grains grinding against his teeth. Some crumbs went down his windpipe, and he coughed twice, but he did not stop. He grabbed another handful.

The sweetness slid down his throat like gasoline poured into an engine about to stall.

By the time he stuffed the third handful into his mouth, Evan's mouth was already sour and sickly sweet.

But the hypoglycemia was finally beginning to fade, and the tremors in his fingers gradually calmed.

[Hypoglycemia has been resolved.]

Chapter 3: Blessing of Three Dragons

Evan leaned against the cabinet, gasping for breath, brown sugar crumbs smeared across his lips and chin.

"What are you doing?"

An impatient female voice sounded behind him, thick with a nasal tone and carrying the scent of cheap perfume mixed with tobacco.

Evan looked up.

A woman stood in the kitchen doorway, one hand lifting the floral curtain and the other holding a cigarette.

She wore a cheap nightgown with a neckline plunging to her breastbone, its fabric thin enough to reveal the outline of the dark slip beneath it.

Her makeup was thick and gaudy, but her eyeliner had smudged, leaving two black streaks trailing from the corners of her eyes.

The rouge on her lips was blotchy too, as though someone had rubbed it off.

She tilted her head at Evan, sitting on the floor in a miserable state. There was no concern in her eyes, only naked disgust and malice.

Smoke drifted from between her cheaply painted lips, lazily curling beneath the dim kerosene lamp.

Evan braced himself against the cabinet and stood up, dusting off his trousers. "Didn't I say no smoking in my house?"

The woman gave a cold laugh and flicked ash onto the floor. "And I told you not to get in the way of me taking customers at night."

She stepped forward, the hem of her nightgown brushing the doorframe, her voice deliberately cutting.

"The way you came rushing around just now scared my customer limp. I'm being kind enough not to make you compensate me."

Evan's face darkened.

But he did nothing.

Because he knew full well that in this body's current condition, he might not even be able to beat this woman.

Mary. An utterly commonplace name.

An Irish immigrant, with an accent so thick it sounded as if she had a lump of wet peat in her mouth.

She was a prostitute, and her workplace was the room next to his, the one he had rented out.

When Evan had been driven to utter poverty, he had considered finding a tenant to ease the pressure.

He had posted a handwritten rental notice on the bulletin board at the grocery store.

Then disaster had come knocking.

The person who brought Mary to view the room was Zack, a short, stocky thug who collected protection money for the Gus Gang in this neighborhood.

A misshapen snake was tattooed around his neck, and he liked to twirl a switchblade between his fingers when he spoke.

Standing at the door, he had grinned and slapped Evan on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger, then said:

"This is my friend. She'll be living here from now on. Two dollars a week, and we'll waive the deposit."

Evan had no right to refuse.

In this neighborhood, the Gus Gang's word was law—ten thousand times more effective than any city hall ordinance.

For the first few weeks, at least, the rent had arrived on time.

Two dollars. Every Monday evening, Mary would toss the money onto the table and leave without looking back.

But later, as Evan grew weaker by the day and his complexion turned grayer and grayer, the woman began defaulting on the rent.

First she delayed it by a day, then two. Eventually, she stopped mentioning it altogether.

Evan could clearly sense what she was waiting for.

She was waiting for him to die.

Once he stopped breathing, this apartment could be transferred into her name through the Gus Gang's connections.

In this neighborhood, not even flies would speak up for a dead poor student's home.

It had started two weeks ago. Mary had grown more and more brazen.

She brought all kinds of men home. Late at night, the neighboring room echoed with the thudding of bedboards against the wall, along with crude laughter and curses.

She smoked in the living room, flicking ash everywhere.

She drank, then tossed the empty bottles into the hallway afterward. Evan had nearly tripped and broken his neck when he got up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night.

Evan was furious.

But in the face of absolute weakness, anger was worthless.

He silently got up from the floor, returned the tin to the cabinet, and turned to leave the kitchen.

He was too weak right now. He would endure it for the time being.

With this frail body, he probably could not even beat this woman, much less Zack and the Gus Gang behind her.

He needed time. He needed to build up strength.

Mary sneered behind him but said nothing more.

The floral curtain swayed twice as she turned away. Then came the sound of a faucet turning on from the kitchen, water rushing as she hummed an off-key Irish tune.

Evan silently crossed the hallway and returned to the master bedroom where his parents had once lived.

The room was small. An iron-framed double bed took up most of the space, leaving only enough room for a table and chair.

A picture frame still hung on the wall. One corner of its glass was broken, and inside was a yellowed family photo. Under the kerosene lamp, the three faces were blurred beyond recognition.

He sat back down in the wooden chair, which let out its familiar groan beneath his weight.

"Looks like the most urgent thing is dealing with that filthy woman."

Evan's eyes gleamed with a cold, heavy light in the darkness.

He temporarily pushed the thought aside and turned his gaze back to the remaining medicine bottles on the table.

After dealing with the side effects of the Night Demon Potion, two more things were waiting for him.

Both were leftovers from his earlier drug trial experiments.

The medication came from a project at Bolton Children's Hospital.

The contract stated that it was meant to "treat epilepsy, insomnia, and anxiety symptoms." When Evan signed it, the young doctor in gold-rimmed glasses had smiled and said, "The side effects are very mild. There's nothing to worry about."

But after taking it, Evan had felt as though someone had poured molten lead into his brain.

Drowsiness, dizziness, unsteady walking—twice, he had nearly tumbled down the stairs.

After taking it continuously for two weeks, more severe symptoms had emerged: his memory began to deteriorate, and he would forget what the professor had said almost immediately after class;

His reactions became sluggish. When someone called his name, they had to shout two or three times before he snapped back to attention;

His mood remained low, as if a damp, cold gray cloth had been draped over his mind, leaving him unable to care about anything.

"This mainly affects the mind. Let's try it."

Evan picked up two pale yellow tablets, tossed them into his mouth, and dry-swallowed them with what saliva remained.

The tablets caught in his throat. He tilted back his head and swallowed hard twice before forcing them down.

[You have taken unfinished Phenobarbital. Duration: 8 hours.]

[Effect: Sedation and improved sleep quality for 4 hours.]

[Do you wish to reverse the side effects?]

"Reverse them."

[You have reversed the side effects of unfinished Phenobarbital.]

[Your memory has improved. Permanent Spirit +0.001.]

[Your reaction speed has improved. Permanent Spirit +0.001.]

[For 4 hours after sufficient sleep, your focus will increase by 300%.]

"As expected, ordinary medicine and potions aren't on the same level when it comes to attribute increases."

Evan sighed, then immediately felt his eyelids grow heavy.

The drug took effect faster than expected.

Perhaps because of the panel, those two Phenobarbital tablets had been catalyzed into a potion.

Evan immediately felt his eyelids beginning to droop. A gentle yet irresistible drowsiness spread from the back of his head, washing over the edge of his consciousness like a tide.

The sleepiness was like a giant palm, pressing him down without giving him any choice.

He rose from the chair, swayed twice, then turned and collapsed toward the old iron-framed double bed.

He carelessly pulled the old, pilled blanket over himself. It carried an ineradicable smell of mothballs and mildew.

The moment his head hit the pillow, it was as though a Robot had had its battery removed. He fell asleep instantly.

Darkness.

Complete, absolute, dreamless darkness.