I'm a Serious Student, Only Taking Nine Potions a Day

"Present."

As each name was called, responses rose and fell throughout the classroom.

This recitation class was not a place for memorizing texts.

This was a true battlefield where real ability was tested. Every time you spoke, every answer you gave, every performance you put on at the blackboard would be recorded by the instructor and reported directly to the professor in charge of the course.

The requirements were extremely strict.

Homework inspections, randomly being called on to recite, solving problems at the blackboard, recounting lecture content, rapid-fire questions.

The pace was fast, the pressure immense, and there was no room to hide one's shortcomings.

Your performance here accounted for a considerable portion of your final grade in this course.

In other words, no matter how well the professor lectured or how attentively you listened during the main lecture, if you performed terribly in the small class, the course was basically ruined.

"Now, recount what Professor Mons taught today."

Wright closed the attendance register, swept his gaze around the classroom, and stopped at the last row.

"Arkham, you start."

He vaguely remembered that name.

During lunch break, he had run into Professor Mons in the faculty lounge. The old professor had unusually mentioned that a student had answered rather well today.

Hearing the words "rather well" from Mons was probably equivalent to hearing someone else call a person "a talent."

Evan stood up without looking through his notes.

"Today's lecture was mainly about the medical applications and toxicology of heavy metal compounds."

"The core content was calomel and corrosive sublimate..."

After listening, Wright's gray eyes flashed behind his glasses, and he nodded in satisfaction.

"Very good."

"Morales, you add to that."

Morales was the student with the side-parted hair who had repeatedly turned around to look at Evan that morning.

Evan glanced at him and sat back down.

The moment his back rested against the chair, an indescribable sense of comfort welled up inside him.

The reversed effect of Phenobarbital was described on the panel as "slightly increasing" memory and reaction speed.

But Evan's actual experience went far beyond "slightly."

He could clearly feel his thoughts becoming sharper, as if someone had wiped clean a pane of dusty glass.

He could recall the contents of all four morning classes almost section by section. He even clearly remembered details like drawing a circle on the blackboard with chalk for emphasis.

"The system should be right. It must be the combined effect of recovering from anemia and improving my other bodily functions."

Chapter 8: Potion Chain

At exactly four o'clock, the small class ended.

The fifteen students nearly breathed a sigh of relief at the same time. The classroom filled with the rustling of books and notes being packed away, and the sense of release was like they had just escaped the gates of hell.

The torment related to credits might not be over yet.

As a respectable institution of higher learning, Sage University naturally believed in training both mind and body.

After classes ended each day, there was roughly half an hour of mandatory physical activity. Skipping it meant an automatic deduction of credits, with no room for negotiation.

The type of exercise could be chosen freely.

Running, baseball, boxing, rowing, rugby... all counted.

With Evan's frail build, he naturally chose running, the activity with the lowest threshold.

At four o'clock in November, the sunset was already dark red, stretching the shadows across the field long and thin.

The temperature had also fallen to around nine degrees.

Evan followed the group in a slow jog around the cinder track, crushed slag crunching beneath the soles of his leather shoes.

He clearly felt much better than yesterday.

Yesterday, he had been gasping like a stranded fish after the first lap. Today, he did not start feeling strained until the second.

There was strength in his legs now, and his lungs no longer felt as though they were working a bellows with every breath.

"A 0.2 increase in constitution is this noticeable?"

As he ran, Evan glanced over the group from the corner of his eye.

He noticed more than a dozen students running listlessly, dragging their feet, their faces gray-white. Several even had an unhealthy bluish-purple tint to their lips.

One lanky student abruptly stopped while running, bent over with his hands on his knees, and dry-heaved twice before classmates supported him to the side of the field.

Evan recognized two of those students.

They had both signed poverty assistance agreements and participated in the drug trial program with him.

"If I didn't have the Power of the Nine Dragons, I'd probably be just like them."

As Evan thought this, his steps instinctively veered toward the lanky student who was dry-heaving. He wanted to go lend a hand.

But reason crushed that thought the next second.

"Take care of yourself first. Only then do you have the right to worry about others."

"Those people even dared to test potions on university students. If I meddle and expose myself, I might be carried out of the university feet first tomorrow."

"At the very least... I need to become a Beyonder first."

He withdrew his gaze, lowered his head, and continued running.

Panting heavily, he ran and stopped until the half hour finally came to an end.

Evan bent over with both hands braced on his knees, gulping down air.

Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the cinders beneath his feet, instantly absorbed.

His shirt was soaked through and clung to his back. When the wind blew, it felt chillingly cold.

His constitution had improved, but there was still a vast gap between 0.7 and a normal person's 1.

It was already five ten in the afternoon. The sunset hung over the rooftops of the western buildings, setting half the sky ablaze in a murky orange-red.

The elms beside the field cast long shadows, their leaves rustling in the evening breeze.

Normally, six thirty to nine thirty was evening self-study time.

But Evan decided to skip it today.

He had something more important to do.

After resting briefly, he took out the leftover lunch Professor Pulis had packed up at noon.

The food that had been colorful, fragrant, and delicious at noon was now mixed together into a single lump.

The congealed fat resembled candle wax.

Although it tasted far worse than it had at noon, it was still countless times more delicious than the black bread and mixed-bean soup he usually ate.

After wolfing down the food, he left the university and squeezed onto a tram headed for the southern district.

The carriage was as crowded as ever: workers getting off work, housewives returning from shopping, and several Sailors who had been drinking, their faces and necks flushed red. All kinds of odors mixed together.

Evan held onto a hanging strap and swayed with the tram for thirty minutes before jumping off at a stop near Gooding Street.

"You look pretty good, Evan!"

An aged yet hearty voice called out.

Evan looked up and saw Old Tom, the cobbler downstairs from his home, sitting on a low stool at the entrance of his shop. A woman's leather boot was clamped between his knees, while the awl in his hand punched holes into the sole.

The old man was in his fifties, with a mess of gray-white hair. He wore reading glasses whose arms had been wrapped in wire, and his apron was covered in shoe polish and leather scraps.

Evan smiled. "The teacher praised me today."

As he spoke, he squatted in front of Old Tom and raised one foot.

"Old Tom, could you patch up my shoes? The heels are uneven, so I limp when I walk."

Old Tom set down the woman's boot, glanced over Evan's faded leather shoes above his reading glasses, pinched the heel of the left shoe with his thumb, then the right, and clicked his tongue.

"Take them off first. Three cents."

Evan took off his shoes and handed them over, then leaned closer to the old man and lowered his voice. "We're neighbors. I even helped look after your grandson before."

Old Tom had three children, two sons and a daughter. He now had six grandchildren, the oldest twelve and the youngest still nursing.

Thanks to his cobbling skills, his family was considered fairly well-off in this neighborhood. At the very least, they did not go hungry.

The old man seemed to be in a good mood today. The corners of his mouth spread, revealing several teeth yellowed by tobacco.

"Fine. Two cents."

He rummaged through the wooden box by his feet, pulled out a pair of wooden slippers worn black and shiny, and tossed them to Evan.

"Come get them in an hour."

"Thanks!"

Evan caught the slippers and slipped them on. Their wooden soles made crisp clacking sounds against the cobblestone road.

He turned and entered the building, dragging his slippers up the creaking stairs before pulling out his key to open the door.

The door had only been pushed open a crack when a short, burly figure emerged from inside.

Zack.

The gang leader had a cigarette clenched between his teeth, its red tip flickering in the dim hallway.

His shirt buttons were undone, leaving his collar open and exposing the distorted tattoo on his neck.

He carried the mingled scent of sweat, cheap cologne, and Mary's inferior perfume.

"Brother Zack!" Evan put on a familiar smile and stepped aside to let him pass.

The short, burly Zack gave a faint grunt without even raising his eyelids. He brushed past Evan, his leather boots thudding down the stairs.

Evan entered the room and casually pulled the door shut behind him.

The sound of running water came from the washroom. Mary was taking a bath.

Her off-key Irish tune started up again, mixed with the sound of water splashing against her body.

The living room had been turned upside down by the two of them.

The cushions from the canvas sofa lay crookedly on the floor. Two empty liquor bottles and a used glass sat on the coffee table, amber liquid still clinging to the bottom of the glass.

Several cigarette butts were scattered across the floor, some crushed flat. A woman's stocking hung over the back of a chair like shed snakeskin.

Evan had no time to clean any of it up.

He walked straight through the living room, returned to the master bedroom, and locked the door behind him.

The latch clicked into place, and he leaned against the door, letting out a long breath.

Then he pulled the black medicine bottle from the inner pocket of his jacket.

The bottle felt faintly cool in his palm.

He held it up before the kerosene lamp and examined it against the light. The outlines of pills could vaguely be seen inside.

"Potions usually need twelve hours to digest, and the same potion can't be taken consecutively."

He calculated rapidly in his mind.

"What if I take two at once? The effect will be stronger, the side effects worse, but I'll grow faster too."

He unscrewed the stopper.

A rich stench of blood rushed at him, so intense it was like sticking his nose over a slaughterhouse drain.

Evan frowned and looked down into the bottle.

Seven blood-red pills lay quietly at the bottom. Each was a size larger than the black pills of the Night Demon Potion, with smooth, moist surfaces.