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

Thomson, enraged, strode forward to charge.

Ivan turned around to face him.

Then he did something that no one expected.

He coughed hard from deep in his throat, spitting a thick phlegm up his trachea, and then spat it precisely into Thomson's face.

The sticky substance, with its stringy texture, slapped onto Thomson's right cheek.

"Welcome to the French Acne Boys Club, hehehe..."

Ivan's voice was strange and absurd, his face was flushed, his eyes were wide open, and a twisted smile was on his lips.

He didn't look like an eighteen-year-old college student; he looked more like one of those desperate outlaws in the alleys of Guding Street who would risk everything.

Thomson's face turned pale instantly.

He was frightened.

Syphilis, French pox, the cursed...

These words exploded in his mind like a bomb.

He comes from a middle-class background, attended a prestigious university, was a promising football prospect, and was the pride of his entire family.

If he were to contract this disease, even just a rumor, everything would be over for him.

He hurriedly stepped back, frantically wiping his face with one hand and shielding himself with the other.

Ivan gave him no chance to catch his breath.

He stepped forward, used his waist and hips to generate power, and sprang up with his right leg, delivering a flying kick that struck Thomson squarely in the abdomen.

The kick delivered by someone with a physique of 1.003 was far more powerful than what a sickly person should have.

Thomson's wall-like body was kicked so hard that he staggered three steps backward, his heels hitting the edge of the steps.

He fell backward onto the stairs, his tailbone hitting the edge of the marble step with a dull thud.

All four people were injured.

One of them was curled up on the ground, clutching his groin, his face pale, his lips trembling but unable to make a sound.

One of them, clutching his leg, limped backward.

LeBon squatted on the ground, covering his bleeding forehead, tears and blood mingling and flowing down his face.

Thomson lay on the steps, wiping his face, his expression one of utter disbelief.

The entire hall was deathly silent.

Everyone was stunned.

The students, who were just laughing, now stood there with their mouths agape, as if someone had pressed the pause button.

Ivan stood in the center of the hall, his chest heaving violently, his breathing heavy.

He bent down to pick up his scattered schoolbag from the ground, opened the outer pocket, pulled out a pen with his right hand, and a steel compass with his left.

The nibs of the pen and the tips of the compass gleamed coldly under the hall lights.

Holding the two items, he turned to LeBon, who was covering his forehead and trying to stand up.

"I'll give you two red buffs!"

The voice wasn't loud, but every word seemed to be squeezed out from between his teeth, carrying an undisguised murderous intent.

LeBon looked up and saw Evan's face through the blood between his fingers.

Those bloodshot eyes, those flushed cheeks, that twisted smile, and those two sharp, gleaming objects in his hand.

He didn't see a classmate; he saw a madman who could kill someone at any moment.

A dark water stain appeared in the crotch area of ​​LeBon's pants.

He let out a raucous wail, turned and ran as fast as he could, the gilded collar pin flying off his collar as he ran.

It landed on the marble floor with a clatter, was stepped on, and slid a long way away.

Ivan took two steps, then stopped and turned to look at Thomson on the steps.

The football rookie made eye contact with him.

In that instant, Thomson saw something in Ivan's eyes that sent chills down his spine.

That wasn't anger; he'd seen anger before.

It's something deeper, more primal, like a wild beast driven to the brink of death, no longer caring about its own demise, only about whether it can bite off a piece of flesh from its opponent before it dies.

He's just here to bully a sick guy for fun.

I'm not here to risk my life.

He has a bright future ahead of him: a rugby scholarship, his father's business, and the expectations of his family.

These things cannot be entrusted to a madman.

Thomson scrambled to his feet on the steps, turned and ran, his heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor as he ran and shouted.

"The Arkham have gone mad! The Arkhams have gone berserk again!"

The sound grew fainter and fainter until it disappeared around the corner of the corridor.

The remaining two, one clutching his groin and the other holding his foot, had already scrambled away and disappeared while Evan was chasing LeBron and Thomson.

Only Evan remained in the center of the hall.

He stood there, holding a pen in his right hand and a compass in his left, his chest heaving violently.

Sweat slid down his forehead and dripped onto the marble floor.

He turned around and faced the students in the hall who were still in a daze.

Men and women, wearing three-piece suits and tie clips, everyone was staring at him, their eyes filled with shock and fear.

"Don't you dare mess with me again."

Ivan's voice was hoarse yet full of energy, echoing between the marble walls.

"Four against one, and they still can't win. A bunch of useless trash."

Several girls were so frightened by the shout that they burst into tears on the spot, covering their mouths and shrinking back into the crowd.

The boys all took a step back, none of them daring to meet his gaze.

The sound of hurried footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.

Several teachers finally arrived.

They rushed into the hall and found it in complete disarray.

Scattered on the ground were a tattered blanket, a copper pipe, a gilded lapel pin, and several textbooks that had been trampled on.

There were a few drops of blood on the marble floor, stretching from the center of the hall to the corner of the corridor.

In the very center of the hall, a thin young man wearing a patched jacket stood alone.

His hands were stained with blood, his right hand held a pen, and his left hand held a compass. His face was flushed, his breathing was heavy, and the bloodshot in his eyes had not yet subsided.

"Student! Drop your weapon immediately!"

The lead teacher reprimanded sternly, his voice clearly tense.

Ibn instinctively raised his hand.

His expression returned to calm within seconds, and he spoke, panting heavily.

"You've misunderstood, teacher. This isn't a weapon; it's stationery."

His voice was steady and clear, even with a hint of politeness.

"Besides, I'm the one who's being bullied."

Chapter 15: (Two-in-One) The Excited Pris

Over the next ten minutes, the four students who had run away were brought back one by one by the staff of the Academic Affairs Office from various corners of the teaching building.

LeBon was found in the men's restroom on the first floor, squatting in a stall and refusing to come out.

Thomson was stopped at the edge of the playground. He was walking towards the school gate, clutching his buttocks, saying he was going to see a doctor.

The other two were hiding in a storage room at the end of the second-floor corridor. When the dean knocked on the door, their faces were ashen, like two rabbits pulled out of a hole.

When the four were taken to the academic affairs office, they were all disheveled and still in shock.

LeBang had a piece of gauze that he had temporarily borrowed from the school clinic on his forehead. Blood had seeped through the first layer, leaving a dark red mark.

But more noticeable than the wound on his forehead was the dark water stain on his pants.

The fabric rubs against the skin, making a slight rustling sound as it spreads from the groin down to the inner thighs. When walking, the legs spread apart unnaturally.

A faint smell of urine filled the air; everyone could smell it, but no one mentioned it.

After briefly questioning several students who witnessed the incident, the three teachers from the Academic Affairs Office quickly figured out the whole story.

The group was led into the dean's office.

The office was small, with an oak desk taking up most of the space. On the desk sat a green-shaded desk lamp, a stack of documents, and a copper ink bottle.

On the wall hangs a plaque bearing the motto of the University of Wise Men and a portrait of its founder.

Five students stood in a row, with Evan on the far left and the other four on the right, separated by a subtle distance.

LeBon spoke first, his voice sharp and trembling, like a string stretched to its limit.

"Teacher! Arkham is a murderer! He brought a weapon! He's going to kill me!"

Ivan stood to the side without saying a word, but simply took out his pen and compass.

The dean of academic affairs, who was sitting behind his desk, looked up.

A man in his fifties, with a stern face, wearing black-rimmed glasses, and with gray hair that was neatly combed.

The dark gray three-piece suit was buttoned up to the top, and the tie was tied neatly.

He looked like he had stepped right off the cover of an administrative management textbook.