I'm a proper student; I only take nine kinds of potions every day.

The lights in the main study were turned on at three in the morning.

The walls are made of dark walnut wood, and oil portraits of family members from different generations are hung on the walls. The floor is covered with thick Persian carpets.

In a bronze fireplace inlaid with family crests, the fire was rekindled, and the flickering orange flames illuminated the entire study with a play of light and shadow.

A middle-aged man in his early forties, with a tall and upright figure, sat down behind the desk.

He wore a dark chestnut velvet morning robe, with half of a white turtleneck nightgown peeking out from underneath. His brow bones were deep, his jawline was distinct, and his entire face had a strong profile with the mature charm unique to British aristocracy.

Cyril Augustus Hearst.

The current head of the Hearst family, a U.S. Representative, had just returned to his estate for a few days for vacation.

On the table, a telegram had already been placed in the most conspicuous position by the tall, thin, and well-dressed personal servant.

Cyril took the gilded glasses handed to him by the servant, slowly put them on, and read the paper word by word.

He scoffed, "These filthy stray dogs."

He folded the telegram in half and threw it back on the table.

"They really won't give up."

He looked up and glanced at the male servant standing by the desk.

"How much intelligence have you received on your end?"

The male servant bowed his head slightly.

"The people at the scene were killed by a witcher named Evan Ludwig Arkham."

"It was a classmate personally selected by the young lady to serve as her bodyguard on this trip."

“The University of Michigan had already taken him away for questioning, and after that, Mr. Karp took him back to the hotel.”

Cyril raised an eyebrow.

"The Witcher?"

He tapped the table lightly with his knuckles.

"You killed a member of the Divine Communion Society?"

The servant nodded: "Iron Blood Potion and Lion Potion, it can be confirmed that he has taken at least these two."

"The two sides also have personal grudges."

He then gave a detailed account of the events leading up to Evan and Alcott, from the school bullying and the extraordinary curse to the final ambush.

Cyril leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the armrest.

“Arkham…”

He chewed on the name in a low voice.

"It seems that it is indeed related to that immortal witch."

The servant bowed slightly: "Should I go and warn the Divine Society first?"

"No need."

Cyril's tone carried an undisguised contempt.

"Since they're so unruly, let's just take action."

He paused.

"They no longer need to stay on this land."

He reached out and picked up the black telephone receiver on the right side of the table.

"To meet the mayor."

A few seconds later, a muffled response came from the other end of the line, as if someone had been dragged out of their sleep.

Cyril's tone changed instantly, becoming gentle, kind, and with the ease of old friends.

Good evening, dear Gerald.

He chuckled.

"Yes, I know."

"Therefore, such cult organizations must be eradicated completely."

"This can be considered as salvaging some of the reputation of the University of Sages."

He picked up the small blue-and-white porcelain teacup on the table and took a sip.

"At the same time, it should remind those businessmen as well."

"Who really calls the shots on this continent?"

Chapter 82: An Unexpected Discovery Through a Keen Sense of Smell (9/10)

[This contains dangerous content; proceed with caution if you're eating.]

After a phone call ended, what was originally a trivial matter of less than four ounces was put on the scale and instantly weighed out to a weight that couldn't be contained even by a thousand pounds.

As night fell over Bolton, the entire upper class was dragged out of bed in that instant.

The president of the Wise University was jolted awake from his dream by the ringing bell and rushed to his study in his slippers.

Beneath the deep green dome of the city hall, rows of dim yellow windows lit up one after another, as if ignited by an invisible fuse.

The city police station's night shift sergeant, while fastening the brass buttons on his uniform, called for people to assemble downstairs.

At four in the morning, even the heavy iron gate of the National Guard post was pushed open with a bang.

It's clear that many people are dissatisfied with the Theosophical Society.

Now that they have the chance, they all want to kick him while he's down!

Those self-important, always arrogant black gloves are unaware of this.

If someone really wanted to take action against them, all they needed was a small reason.

That night, Bolton was destined to be sleepless.

……

Meanwhile, in New Haven, Evan was living quite comfortably.

He was given a private room and a new set of clothes, and was even relieved of his night duty of standing guard in the corridor.

Jack, who had been blowing air into his nostrils when he got on the bus the day before yesterday, now greeted him with "brother" and "sir" at every turn.

Those blue eyes were filled with an excessively enthusiastic admiration, so much so that it almost overflowed from their sockets.

Karp escorted him all the way to the door, then patted his shoulder heavily with his large, knuckle-thick hand.

"If you're tired, take a good rest."

The old bodyguard's tone carried undisguised approval.

"The bonus will be settled along with your salary when you return to Bolton."

He paused, then raised an eyebrow at Evan.

"I believe in you."

The door closed behind him, and Evan stood alone in his private room.

The carpet was so deep it went over your shoes, and the curtains were made of heavy, wine-red velvet.

The bedside lamp with its milky white glass shade had been turned on beforehand, casting a warm yellow halo onto the wall.

He walked over in a few steps and collapsed heavily onto the large bed covered with snow-white linen sheets.

He raised his hand and brought up the control panel.

You reversed the side effects of the Ironblood Potion.

Your memory has been improved. Your mental strength has been permanently increased by 0.03.

Your sleep efficiency will increase by 100% in the next 48 hours.

"Tsk."

Evan pursed his lips: "The side effects are rather minor."

After a moment's thought, he realized, "That makes sense."

"This is already a mature, mass-produced potion."

“Unlike the experimental subjects like Priscilla and Byron.”

"It's normal that the side effects of a formula that has been optimized by countless generations are so low."

"Otherwise, if all the Witchers turned into senile old people, how could they be investigators?"

He continued scrolling down.

You reversed the side effects of the Gecko Potion.

Your blood quality will improve by 50% within the next 168 hours.

"Fifty percent."

He clicked his tongue: "That's quite a lot. It's a pity it's only temporary."

You reversed the side effects of the shark potion.

Your vision and sense of smell have been enhanced. Your constitution has been permanently increased by 0.05.

[Your sense of smell and taste will be enhanced by 200% in the next 48 hours.]

"The attribute bonuses weren't that significant."

He put the panel away: "But the temporary buffs left after these side effects reverse are still quite useful."

He had barely finished thinking those words when his nostrils twitched.

The feeling was like someone whose nose had been stuffy for a whole week suddenly having their nasal passages clear the moment they opened their eyes one morning.

The scents that were right beside me, yet always separated by a layer of cotton, suddenly rushed into my nostrils without warning.