I'm a Proper Student, I Only Drink Nine Potions a Day

"It wasn't the Gus Gang. They were bad, but not stupid. That Nock had given his word. He wouldn't go back on it."

"Red King Laboratory? No, they'd just kicked me out. No reason for them to grab me now."

"The Church? Even less likely. I don't have any conflict with them."

As if suddenly remembering something, he turned and shouted downstairs.

"Old Tom! Save me a spot for tomorrow's shoe repair!"

Using the turn to shield himself, he quickly pulled the small glass bottle from his jacket's inner pocket, removed the wax seal, and tipped the dark red viscous liquid into his mouth.

[You have consumed the Night Demon Potion. Duration: 12 hours.]

[Effect: While the potion is active and it is nighttime, perception increases by 30%, and night vision increases by 200%.]

In an instant, the outlines in the unlit stairwell became as clear as day.

Every crack in the walls, every speck of dust on the floor, even the tips of the shoes belonging to the three people around the stairway corner—all of it was laid bare before his eyes.

The group upstairs seemed to realize Evan was deliberately refusing to come up, so they decided to make the first move.

Three men rushed down from above. A tall man circled around from the shadows at the second-floor landing and came up behind him. The four formed a three-in-front, one-behind encirclement, trapping Evan midway up the stairwell.

The leader was a middle-aged man in a flat cap and a worn brown tweed jacket. A cherrywood pipe hung from his mouth, its ember glowing and dimming in the night.

He had a neatly trimmed handlebar mustache, and his entire demeanor was refined and composed.

Seeing that outfit, Evan actually relaxed a little.

Not some dangerous figure. A private detective.

"Mr. Arkham?"

The middle-aged man removed his pipe from his mouth, his tone as polite as if he had run into an old friend on the street.

Evan stopped, his voice flat.

"Who are you?"

The middle-aged man smiled faintly and pulled a small card from his jacket pocket with his right hand, but did not offer it over.

"You don't need to know. Someone wants to see you."

He paused, lowering his voice slightly.

"If you don't want to suffer, I suggest you come with us obediently."

Evan took a step forward.

"Oh? Is that so?"

At that moment, a gusting sound came from behind him.

The sound of a fist cutting through the air.

The next instant—

"Ow!"

"Ah!"

"That hurts..."

A string of agonized screams rang out in the stairwell.

In less than ten seconds, three burly men tumbled down the stairs, wailing.

One clutched his ribs, another held his thigh, and the last one—the one whose shoe had been stepped on—cradled his foot and howled at the stairway landing.

Downstairs, Old Tom slowly poked his head out from the shoe repair shop, adjusted his reading glasses, and unhurriedly addressed the burly man rolling around on the ground while clutching his foot.

"Need your shoes repaired, sir? Ten cents a pair."

The middle-aged detective stood frozen in place.

Evan turned back to face him. Looking at the man's instantly bloodless face, he smiled and repeated his earlier words.

"If you don't want to suffer, I suggest you come inside with me obediently."

"Wh... what just happened? It was too fast."

The middle-aged man's pipe slipped from his mouth and struck the concrete floor with a crisp clatter.

He prided himself on being a veteran and a police academy graduate, with passable fighting skills.

But just now—

He had not seen anything at all.

A college student who looked like he weighed no more than one hundred and ten pounds, skinny as a bamboo pole.

Had actually beaten three one-hundred-and-eighty-pound brutes as though disciplining a few seven- or eight-year-old children.

While his mind was still trying to process this information that defied common sense, Evan had already walked past him and opened the apartment door.

"S-sir, there must be some misunderstanding..."

The middle-aged man's voice was full of nervousness.

He had a gun, but he did not dare draw it.

He was afraid the other man would take it from him in an instant.

Standing in the doorway, Evan made an inviting gesture with a smile.

"Whether it's a misunderstanding isn't for you to decide."

He paused and tapped his chest with his index finger.

"Understand?"

The middle-aged man nodded obediently, then turned toward the companions still rolling around downstairs and shouted in a trembling voice.

"Wait for me! I'll cover your medical bills!"

He needed his companions to bolster his courage, even if those three useless men could barely get back on their feet now.

In the old apartment's living room.

The middle-aged man sat on the patched canvas sofa with his back perfectly straight and his hands properly placed on his knees, like a student waiting to be reprimanded by the principal.

Evan stepped across the creaking floorboards, took a glass from the kitchen, filled it halfway with cold water, and handed it over.

There was no black tea in this poor household, no sugar cubes, much less milk.

Then he plopped down on the coffee table and looked down at the other man from above.

"Who sent you to investigate me?"

The middle-aged man had originally wanted to use the silver tongue he had honed over more than a decade in the business, circle around a few times, and steer the conversation elsewhere.

But when he met Evan's teasing gaze, like a cat looking at a mouse, all his prepared lines instantly deflated like a punctured ball.

"It was Mr. Lebon."

He answered honestly.

"Lebon." Evan frowned slightly.

"You mean little Lebon or his father?"

The middle-aged man froze for a moment. His eyes shifted twice before he asked with tentative confusion.

"Jimmy Lebon is dead. You didn't know?"

Evan blinked.

"Huh? He's dead?"

The expression on his face was flawlessly natural.

"He was perfectly fine when I saw him on Friday!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, scenes from that night connected in his mind.

Hill's silver hair beneath the moonlight, her words, "Ten out, twenty back," and the bad-luck curse she had lifted from him.

"Curse backlash."

Those four words surfaced clearly in his mind.

The curse had been forcibly reflected back, and the caster had borne the full cost.

It now seemed that Lebon was the one who had hired that Financier to curse him.

The middle-aged man watched Evan's expression.

More than a decade of detective experience told him that this young man was not lying.

That shock and surprise had been completely natural, without the slightest trace of performance.

"After investigating, Mr. Lebon believed that you killed his son through some mysterious curse."

"So he asked us to bring you back for questioning."

Hearing this, Evan's lips curled into a cold smile.

"His son bullied me, then died on his own, and now he says I cursed his son?"

Genuine anger filled his voice.

"Why doesn't he say that those Brotherhood people saw his son piss himself in fear after I scared him, disgrace their name, and kill him to keep him quiet?"

The middle-aged man's mind raced as he pieced this new information together with the incomplete file Mr. Lebon had provided when making the commission.

So that was it.

Mr. Lebon had deliberately concealed crucial information.

Damn it. I'm never taking another job with incomplete information and a high commission fee again!

He cursed inwardly, then considered the medical bills for the three companions downstairs.

Judging by how badly they had fallen down the stairs, five dollars probably would not settle it.

He cleared his throat. The smile returned to his face, but this time it was sincere, with a hint of ingratiation.

"Then it does seem to have been a misunderstanding."

He pulled a rather respectable brown business card from his jacket's inner pocket and offered it with both hands.

"My name is Tom MacRae. I'm the director and chief detective of the MacRae Detective Agency."

"I can tell that Jimmy Lebon's death has nothing to do with you. I'll go back and explain the situation to Mr. Lebon."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the shabby living room before returning to Evan's face.

"By the way, I can see you're quite skilled. Would you be interested in doing some part-time work for me during your breaks?"

The Inheritance of Beyonder Characteristics

MacRae needed the young enforcer in front of him.

What had happened in the stairwell had left too deep an impression on him.

A college student capable of taking down three burly men in ten seconds was simply an exceptionally gifted talent in the detective business.

Evan accepted the card, pinching the brown cardstock between his fingertips and feeling its thickness and texture.

"What's the pay?"

MacRae's smile became even gentler.

"Come to my office when you have time, and we can discuss it in detail."

As he spoke, he stood and gave Evan a slight bow.

"Then I'll be going!"

With that, the chief detective of the MacRae Detective Agency rushed out of the living room in three quick strides. From the stairs came the frantic sounds of him helping his companions.

Evan remained where he was, lowering his head to look at the brown business card in his hand.

The card bore gold-embossed cursive lettering with "MacRae Detective Agency" and an address printed on it. In the lower-right corner was an image of an open-eyed magnifying glass.