novellhall Chapter 9: Training? Carrying sacks would be much better!
Chapter 9: Training? Carrying sacks would be much better!
"Eight hours, okay!"
Now, setting the panel down, Ivan looked at himself.
The changes are obvious.
The familiar low blood sugar struck again, but the effect was much milder than last time.
He took the brown sugar jar from the kitchen to the bedroom, ate a couple of handfuls, and then felt his body.
The two magical potions no longer provide a localized improvement.
His entire body, from scalp to toes, every cell was being activated, rebuilding itself at a speed he had never experienced before.
Through the sensory abilities provided by the panel, he could clearly identify the source of this energy.
It is a blood potion.
This is not only medicine, but also a source of some kind of energy.
"How can a single drug possess such immense power?"
"Could it be made of special materials?"
As I pondered, a burning restlessness rose from the depths of my bones, my heart raced, my muscles tensed, and an almost frantic impulse surged through my limbs.
He has to get moving.
It's not that I "want" to exercise, it's that I "have to" exercise.
The desire was so intense, like a drowning person needing to breathe, irresistible.
Ivan did not hesitate.
He stood up from the chair, feet shoulder-width apart, and began to squat.
One, two, three.
Despite being a frail body terminally ill, it showed no signs of trembling at this moment.
The movements are fluid and stable: bend your knees, press your thighs down, and then push yourself back up.
He switched to push-ups, placing his palms on the cold wooden floor, his arms and legs firmly supporting his entire body weight.
The butterflies did not flutter as expected.
During this exercise, he could even feel his blood flow accelerating, as if a valve had been opened.
Oxygen rushes into the alveoli with rapid breathing, is captured by hemoglobin, and delivered to every muscle that is burning.
Even vigorous muscle activity couldn't make him gasp for breath.
Evan rolled over and sat on the floor, looking down at his arm.
Beneath the pale skin, veins were bulging one by one, like tree roots pushing through the soil.
The veins on his forearm, which had previously shriveled and collapsed due to excessive blood selling, were now full and plump, with a faint bluish-green hue.
Then he saw something even more amazing.
His arms were swelling.
It's not an illusion.
Visibly, those two arms, so thin that the outline of the ulna was visible, were filling out at an abnormal speed.
Muscle fibers wriggle, proliferate, and stack beneath the skin, as if an invisible hand is filling in from the inside out.
He felt he had inexhaustible strength.
Ivan looked at the newly appeared buff status on the panel.
[Blood Wine Enhancement: The specially prepared blood wine is nourishing your body. Lasts for 12 hours.]
"Blood wine?"
A completely new vocabulary.
"Blood-brewed wine? No wonder, blood potions really do have extraordinary power."
"It's not ordinary medicine; is it blood that's been specially mixed? Or is it alcohol?"
My mind was thinking, but my body never stopped.
He rolled over again and continued doing push-ups, the floor creaking under his hands, the pace quickening.
Just as Priss said, digesting the Blood Potion requires a lot of exercise.
The body is like a furnace running at full speed; potions are the fuel, and exercise is the bellows—both are indispensable.
But soon, Evan sensed that something was wrong.
pain.
It's not just one spot that hurts; my whole body aches.
The side effects of the two potions did not take effect due to the power of the nine dragons.
However, the physical impact caused by the violent surge of extraordinary energy within this frail body is irreversible.
The feeling was like someone pouring molten iron into his veins, forcibly tearing and reassembling every muscle fiber.
The periosteum felt like it had been sanded, and the joint felt like it was filled with shards of glass.
Evan gritted his teeth and looked at the status bar on the panel.
No negative conditions were observed.
This shows that the pain is not pathological, nor is it a side effect; it is simply an unavoidable cost of the body's rapid rebuilding process.
It's like tearing down a building and rebuilding it; there's always dust when you're tearing it down.
Thinking of this, Evan sat up and reached out to grab the leftovers from the drug trial a week ago.
I unscrewed the cap, poured five slices into my palm, and stuffed them all into my mouth, swallowing them with half a glass of cold water.
You have taken a large dose of aspirin. Effect lasts: 6 hours.
[Effect: Your pneumonia has improved, from 12% to 9%; within the medication's effect, your pain perception has decreased.]
You reversed the side effects of aspirin.
Your digestive function has improved, and your constitution has been permanently increased by 0.001.
Your hearing has improved, and your physical constitution has been permanently increased by 0.001.
The effects of the two magical potions worked quickly.
Under normal circumstances, aspirin takes about 30 minutes to take effect.
But at that moment, his metabolism seemed to have been sped up six times, and in less than five minutes, the stinging pain that spread throughout his body began to subside.
The pain receded from the extremities like the receding tide, eventually leaving only a warm, tolerable soreness.
"Cool."
Ivan stretched his shoulders, his knuckles cracking.
He was preparing to continue doing push-ups when a thought suddenly flashed through his mind.
He stopped.
"etc."
"I have such a strong desire to exercise right now, and my body is rapidly digesting the magic potion, so I need a lot of exercise to keep up."
"Then what am I doing doing push-ups in this dilapidated house?"
"I'm going to make money."
Moving goods, carrying bags, loading and unloading – the warehouses in the dock area are always short-handed.
Isn't that kind of repetitive labor that purely consumes physical strength the best form of exercise?
With that thought in mind, Evan suppressed the urge to run a hundred laps on the spot and walked to the wardrobe, opening the door.
At the very bottom of the wardrobe were two sets of work clothes left by his father.
The denim overalls are worn and faded at the knees, but the fabric is thick and durable.
A rough canvas shirt, with frayed edges at the collar and cuffs, and a faint smell of machine oil still lingering on it.
Ivan shook them out and put them on.
The overalls were a size too big at the waist, and he had to fasten the straps two notches tighter before they barely fit.
Hide the medicine bottle well, stuff it under the mattress.
After putting on his work boots, he rushed out the door with a flurry of activity.
In November, it was already completely dark by six o'clock in the evening.
The kerosene lamps on the street lit up, their dim yellow light spreading through the industrial smog like blurry spots of light suspended in mid-air.
Guding Street was still bustling, with people flocking to pubs and cheap restaurants after work. Street vendors hawked roasted chestnuts and hot cider on street corners, steam rising from pots and quickly condensing into white mist in the cold air.
Evan jogged along, crossing Guding Street and running southeast.
After leaving the familiar neighborhood, the smell in the air began to change.
The smells of soot and food were gradually replaced by a stronger, more primal aroma:
The salty smell of seawater, the pungent smell of tar, the musty smell of rotting wood, and the fishy smell that is everywhere.
Hain Street.
This street is right next to the dock, and you can see the undulating black sea and the huge cargo ships docked in the port from the roadside.
The rust on the ship's hull gleamed a dark red under the dock lights, and residual steam still billowed from the chimney.
The crane's steel boom stretched into the night sky like the fingers of a giant, its slings swaying slightly in the wind, making a creaking sound as metal rubbed together.
The workers, having finished dinner, have gradually started their workdays.
The dock was teeming with people: some carrying sacks, some pushing handcarts, and others shouting and directing the hoisting operations. Sweat, profanities, and steam mingled together.
Ivan ran along the dock for a while, his eyes scanning the signs of rows of warehouses, and finally settling on one.
Bryce Transportation Company.
The warehouse doors were wide open, and the interior was brightly lit, with workers busily moving large quantities of goods.
Sacks, wooden crates, and iron barrels were unloaded from the wagons and then carried one by one into the depths of the warehouse and stacked neatly.
"Uncle Parker! Are you still hiring?"
Evan jogged over and stopped in front of a burly middle-aged man, bending over to catch his breath, a smile plastered on his face.
Parker, 46, is the foreman here.
When Ivan's father, Anta, was still alive, the two were coworkers and had some relationship.
The foreman had a charred briar pipe between his teeth, the embers of the tobacco flickering in the night wind.
His face was eroded by the sea breeze and sun year after year; his nose and neck were sunburned red, and his skin was as rough as sandpaper.
He wore a floppy baseball cap on his head, the brim of which was stained with salt from sweat.
His body odor was a mixture of fishy smell, tobacco, and cheap rye whiskey, strong and rugged.
Parker's first reaction upon seeing Ivan was surprise.
He took the pipe out of his mouth, looked Evan up and down twice, and frowned.
"Evan? You've gotten so thin!"
He then sighed, his voice lowering, "I've heard about your parents. It's a pity, Anta was a good person."
Ivan hummed in agreement, not dwelling on the topic.
"I'm fine, it's just from staying up all night for exams. I recently got into a university for wise men, and I want to earn some pocket money."
Parker's eyes lit up: "You really got in?"
He tapped his palm with the pipe stem, grinned, and revealed a row of teeth stained yellow by tobacco.
"Ha! Anta can finally rest in peace. He used to keep saying his son was going to be a doctor."
He knew the tuition fees at the University of the Wise, so he didn't ask any more questions about the money.
"Normal daily wage is $1.20, 12-hour workday." Parker put the pipe back in his mouth, switching his tone back to foreman mode.
"If you don't work a full day, you'll only be paid by the hour. It's eight cents an hour, and there's someone supervising you. If you slack off, you'll get docked pay."
He looked Evan up and down again, his gaze lingering on his two arms, which were as thin as bamboo poles.
"Are you sure you can do it?"
Ivan patted his chest, panting, and laughed, "Perfect for a workout!"
Parker and Anta were just drinking buddies who would have a couple of drinks together after get off work; there was no special treatment between them.
He gestured toward a small shed on the side of the warehouse.
"Go get your employee badge over there."
Ivan jogged all the way to the registration desk.
An old man sat dozing in the shed, with a greasy register and a box of tin badges in front of him.
Evan gave his name, signed the form, and received a numbered name tag, which he pinned to the shoulder strap of his overalls.
Then he followed the workers to the dock, bent down, grabbed both sides of a sack with both hands, and slung it over his shoulder.
It's a bit difficult.