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

He touched his chin.

"Detective's Assistant".

He weighed the weight of those four words in his mind.

They can legally obtain information, access cases from all levels of society, and freely enter and exit various places without arousing suspicion.

For an extraordinary newcomer who wants to gain a foothold in the undercurrents of this city.

"It seems like a pretty convenient part-time job."

McCree was sent away, and nothing much happened afterward.

Evan spent seventeen cents on dinner at Lucky Bee.

Roasted pork liver, stewed potatoes and cabbage, plus a large slice of rye bread—the portions were generous, but the oil was so heavy it made your throat feel greasy.

After checking the house to make sure there were no more "guests," he changed into his father's work clothes and headed straight for the dock.

It's still piecework.

It starts at 7:00 and ends at 11:00.

Eighty cents in my pocket.

When he finished work, Evan held the few sweaty coins in his palm, walked up to foreman Parker, and lowered his voice.

“Uncle Parker, I saw Carey at the clinic a couple of days ago. He went to try the drug.”

Parker paused for a moment as he was stuffing tobacco into his mouth with his pipe.

"Hey."

He sighed, a sigh as heavy as if a stone were pressing down on him.

"Who knew he would get that disease? He just married a beautiful wife, and his life is probably ruined now."

He muttered to himself, but his tone paused subtly on the words "beautiful wife," with a strange undertone in the last syllable that Evan couldn't quite pinpoint.

"What a beautiful woman..."

Parker said nothing more, turned and walked into the warehouse, the red glow of his pipe flickering in the night.

Ivan stood there, staring at Parker's back for a few seconds.

"A beautiful woman. Syphilis."

A few days ago, those two words wouldn't have made him think much.

Syphilis was not a rare disease in Guding Street; one could contract it by marrying a prostitute or by visiting another man's wife.

But everything he's seen these past few days has made it impossible for him to view anything around him in a "normal" way anymore.

"Make a note of it, it might come in handy."

He opened a separate drawer in his mind, stuffed in the clues of "Carey—beautiful wife—syphilis—Parker's reaction," and locked it away.

When I got to my doorstep, exhaustion began to wash over me.

He instinctively reached into his jacket pocket, intending to pour out two phenobarbital pills to help him sleep, only to find the bottle was empty.

He sighed and took out the bottle of mercury pills again.

Two pills remain.

Let's just swallow it all.

You reversed the side effects of the mercury pills.

Your oral cavity has been strengthened, and your physical constitution has been permanently increased by 0.001.

"Ok?"

Ivan frowned.

Under normal circumstances, the reversal of mercury pills should alleviate gastrointestinal ulcers and brain nerve damage.

The digestive tract ulcers have already cleared up, so it's understandable that there was no effect.

But with 13% of the brain nerves still damaged, there was no response at all.

"Has drug resistance developed?"

He thought about it for a moment, but didn't take it too seriously.

"I'm not planning to take it anymore anyway. I'll try a new drug later."

Mercury pills cost three cents each, which isn't cheap, but the attribute boosts are really limited.

Since the rash has completely subsided, there's no need to keep spending money on it.

He threw the empty bottle into the trash can, finished washing up, and climbed onto the metal bunk bed.

A healthy body leads to healthy sleep.

Less than five minutes after his head hit the pillow, he lost consciousness.

"Did you know? In the extraordinary world, there are no books."

Deep in his dream, Evan felt as if something new had been forcibly inserted into his mind.

That was some kind of whisper.

A sound that resonates directly inside the skull.

"Young witcher, let me pave the way for your future."

An aged and weary voice rang out once more.

Ivan looked up in the void of the dream and saw a bright campfire.

The flames leaped, their orange-red light illuminating the small space around them.

He instinctively walked over and sat down on a rock by the campfire.

A variety of smells wafted towards us.

The stench of rotting animal hides, the rusty smell of old bloodstains, the burnt aroma of hay mixed with pine resin, and a certain indescribable musty smell, similar to damp leather.

He looked around.

Including myself, there were seven people sitting around the campfire.

The other five people sat there silently, like statues forgotten by time.

Their attire was all different.

The person on the far left is wearing chainmail in the style of a medieval knight, with a faded family crest engraved on his breastplate.

The man next to him was wearing a Nordic-style wolfskin cloak, with a string of animal teeth hanging from his waist.

Beyond that was a figure wearing a bird-beak mask, reminiscent of a 17th-century plague doctor.

The other characters' attire remained consistent with the Industrial Age, featuring leather jackets, brass buttons, and flintlock holsters.

Their forms also vary.

There was a huge man, like a crouching mountain of flesh, with a complete bear skin draped over his broad shoulders.

Some people are thin and silent, with long, thin fingers, each joint protruding half an inch more than the average person.

There was another person with a deformed appearance, leaning on a cane with a wolf's head carved at the top, half of his face hidden in the shadow of his hood, only revealing a patch of skin with an unusual texture.

But they all have one thing in common.

A pair of golden pupils.

The pupil is a vertical slit, and the iris is burning amber gold.

Sharp, resolute, and one that Evan knew all too well.

Hill's pupils.

The Witcher's Eyes.

"Young hunter, what do you want to know?"

The aged voice rang out again.

Ivan turned his head.

A slightly overweight middle-aged man sat to his right.

He wore a wide-brimmed tricorn hat, covered the lower half of his face with a black face mask, and wore an old-fashioned black trench coat.

Compared to his other companions, who were like statues, this person was unbelievably vibrant.

He sat cross-legged, a silver longsword lying across his knees, and held a soft cloth in his hand, wiping the blade one stroke at a time.

The firelight flowed across the blade, reflecting the warm light in his golden vertical pupils.

Ivan immediately understood.

These are fragments of memory transmitted during the digestion of the Witcher's extraordinary abilities.

Those "ancestors" sitting around the campfire are merely symbolic representations.

The one who actually spoke to him was this middle-aged witcher, who was also Hill's mentor.

“You just said that there are no books in the extraordinary world,” Evan said.

What does that mean?

The Witcher paused for a moment as he wiped his sword.

"The so-called extraordinary is essentially mysterious and impossible."

"How can something so mysterious and impossible be written down in books like ordinary knowledge?"

Ivan thought for a moment.

"How is knowledge passed down?"

The Witcher smiled, his smile hidden behind a black mask, only the fine lines at the corners of his eyes curving slightly.

He pointed the tip of his sword at the leaping fire at his feet.

"There are now five symbols of the extraordinary, each of which encompasses three professions."