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

His voice was filled with an uncontrollable rage and madness: "Die!"

Bang bang bang!

Dennis raised his pistol, and three lead bullets shot straight into Evan's chest.

Ta-da!

The lead bullet struck Ivan's already completely bronzed chest, producing a crisp, echoing clang.

Each bullet exploded into lead sparks the moment it hit the brass surface and fell to the ground.

Ivan didn't even feel any pain; the sensation was like someone rubbing his chest with an eraser.

The copper paint and dents that were hit by lead bullets were also quickly repaired by the powerful self-healing force.

He released his grip, and the headless, mangled corpse slumped limply onto the wooden floor.

Those golden vertical pupils slowly swept over the group of spoiled brats still crowding at the entrance of the second-floor factory.

"Almost there~"

The voice came from deep in his throat, calm and without a single undulation, chillingly cold.

Evan hoped his tone would have some variation.

Unfortunately, whenever his emotions fluctuated, the Ironblood Potion would forcefully pull him back.

He strode over to the group of people.

He didn't use that explosive speed that was impossible for the naked eye to follow.

He wanted these guys to watch him get closer and closer.

He wanted to show them what despair and fear truly meant.

"how……"

Dennis, standing at the very front, stared intently at Evan's chest.

He pulled the trigger himself for those three bullets and saw them hit his chest with his own eyes!

How come this guy is alright?

His right hand, which was holding the gun, began to tremble uncontrollably.

"How is this possible?!"

At this moment, Thomson, who was standing beside him, stepped forward and said something.

"Didn't that hit?"

The mortals' vision prevented them from seeing what was happening over there.

He raised his elbow and nudged Dennis's shoulder.

"Your marksmanship is really bad."

This football player, who usually doesn't get along with Dennis, was unwilling to be outdone by him in this situation.

Because they knew the chairman was still alive; they had heard his voice!

The chairman will deliver a fatal blow to this lowly villain at the crucial moment!

He gripped the spiked oak baseball bat in his hand and roared at the group of young men behind him.

"Brothers! Kill him!"

Five people, bewildered, charged forward yelling.

The dim moonlight slanted down from the broken roof of the factory, casting Ivan's steady, forward-moving figure into a long silhouette.

Ivan narrowed his eyes at the first young man who rushed forward.

He remembered that face.

He was one of the people who bullied LeBon when he was first bullied.

After the incident, the guy was chased by himself and eventually hid in a toilet stall, too scared to come out.

The spiked baseball bat whistled through the air and swung down hard over the young man's shoulder.

Evan raised his left hand, and his palm, covered in a cold, bronze hue, caught the middle of the bat steadily from below.

Click!

The brass five fingers close together like a hydraulic clamp.

The sturdy oak baseball bat was crushed in two between his fingers.

Spikes tumbled and splintered, as if what I had just grasped was not a piece of hardwood, but a paper toy.

"what?"

The young man opened his mouth slightly, but the shout he was about to utter was left unfinished.

His head was slowly reached out by that large brass hand, its five fingers gripping his entire skull.

He was lifted off the ground by that hand.

Feet dangling in the air, shoe tips kicking wildly in the air.

"Let me go! Let me go!"

The young man let out a distorted scream.

"Help me! Help me! Thomson!"

He roared as he frantically pounded and tore at the wrist that was gripping his head with Ivan's hand.

when!when!when!

With each blow, his knuckles didn't send back the dull pain that one would expect from hitting flesh.

It was the recoil from hitting a cold, hard steel pipe.

Ivan stared at his face, which was contorting from suffocation, his eyes momentarily glazed over.

He recalled the time some time ago when he first encountered a vampire.

It was a similar situation back then, except that I was the one being held in someone else's hands.

"The first one."

He counted silently in his mind.

*Splat*

The moment the brass fingers closed, the head, like a ripe tomato, was squeezed between the fingers into a dark red paste of brain matter and hair.

when!when!when!

Several heavy metallic clanging sounds rang out simultaneously from his left and right sides, above his head, and his chest.

The others rushed forward the moment he grabbed the first one.

The baseball bat hit him in the face.

The blade struck the side of his neck.

A short dagger pierced his chest.

The copper-covered area instantly shifted between different parts of his body, moving from his chest to his head, as he focused his mind.

Every attack, from the side of the neck to the chest, was easily caught by that layer of brass.

The cast iron nails broke off on the skin, bouncing off one by one into the moonlight.

The blade struck the metal surface, instantly creating fish-scale-like cuts.

The short dagger broke in two, the cut flashing in the moonlight.

Ivan stood still, not a single hair on his head was out of place.

They finally saw it clearly!

The moonlight slanted down from the broken roof, illuminating that half-human, half-bronze face.

Silver-white hair.

Golden vertical pupils.

Its skin, covered in a soft, brass-colored sheen, was expressionless, like a meticulously crafted metal doll.

"A monster!"

It was unclear which young man let out a piercing scream.

*Splat*

A second head.

"The second one."

*Splat.* The third one.

……

Moonlight streamed in through the hole in the roof, cutting the series of movements into silhouettes, frame by frame.

In an instant, of the five men who had been roaring and charging forward, only Thomson remained.

He turned and ran, but his carefully polished Oxford shoes slipped.

Ivan's figure flickered in the moonlight, like a ghost, and in one swift step, he stood in front of him.

One hand gripped Thomson's neck, lifting the 6'6" football player up like a sack of flour.

"Please...please!"

Thomson's face flushed red and then paled.

"I'll give you money! I'll give you money!"

"I was wrong!"

He finally realized what kind of being he had provoked tonight.

He finally understood what was hidden in the back pages of tabloids and street legends...