Translator: ChuRen/ YuQiChen
“Si Nuo, please proceed to Window No. 1 to collect your medication.”
Hearing the mechanical voice over the broadcast, the teenager waiting on the bench stood up and walked toward the window.
He lightly scanned his wristband against the machine beside it. With a clinking sound, a coin-sized medicine box dropped from the slot in the window.
This was the cheapest and lowest-grade inferior gene medicine. Even so, a month’s supply like this costs over 5,000 yuan.
It almost emptied all the money in Si Nuo’s pocket.
But without this medicine, he might not survive even a month.
Standing by the hospital entrance, Si Nuo opened the box, shoved the medicine into his mouth, and swallowed it directly.
In the interstellar world, many people suffered from genetic diseases like his. Before turning 18, they could receive government aid and get one pill a month.
After turning 18, such welfare disappeared.
A month ago, this body had just come of age. It was then that Si Nuo woke up inside it. Originally, he had been a 007 corporate drone, constantly bickering with clients over design drafts. His childhood love of drawing had long been eroded by such work.
Now, having inherited all the original owner’s memories, Si Nuo learned that because he couldn’t bear spending his limited savings, the original owner had neglected to buy the gene medicine on time—leading to Si Nuo’s awakening in this body.
So whenever he felt a bit better, Si Nuo quickly rushed to the hospital to buy this inferior gene medicine, which, despite side effects causing weakness, loss of appetite, and frequent dizziness and nausea, kept him alive.
But what troubled him most now wasn’t the side effects but where to get the money.
He wasn’t going back to the labor jobs the original owner used to do—not because he couldn’t endure hardship but because his body was too weak.
If he continued to rely on heavy manual labor, Si Nuo feared dying again—no one wanted to die while alive.
After all, who knew if the next awakening would be under even worse conditions?
The medicine seemed to work as expected. Si Nuo felt a warm sensation spread through his previously aching joints and bones, easing the gnawing pain like toothache.
Though there were side effects, spending 5,000 yuan wasn’t wasted.
Walking toward the hover rapid transit station, Si Nuo prepared to return to school. Yes, he was still an art student at a comprehensive arts academy.
In this world, people’s social classes are divided according to their spiritual power levels, which are determined at birth. The original owner was abandoned by his biological parents precisely because he had no spiritual power and suffered from a genetic disease.
Currently, the highest spiritual power level is 3S, descending stepwise down to level D.
Starting from level A and upwards, irreversible mental disorders accompany the spiritual power.
The higher the level, the more severe the mental disorder.
These mental disorders remain a major, internationally unresolved issue. Even though drugs have been developed to temporarily delay the symptoms, they only address the symptoms, not the root cause.
Furthermore, prolonged use of these drugs leads to drug resistance, and they are even more expensive than gene medicines.
Si Nuo thought that if he didn’t have a genetic disease, being an ordinary person wouldn’t be so bad.
Spiritual power could make a person strong, but such strength obviously came with a tremendous price.
Si Nuo boarded the hovercar, his mind foggy and heavy from the side effects of the medication beginning to take hold.
At this time, the car wasn’t crowded. Si Nuo found an empty seat and half-closed his eyes, calculating what he could possibly do in this world.
Right now, the only thing he could rely on was painting. But in this world, where spiritual power was supreme, very few people appreciated art.
Ordinary people, struggling for survival, had no time or energy to appreciate art, nor would they understand the meanings behind artworks.
For those with spiritual power, art held even less significance.
The only ones who appreciated art and had the money to do so were the wealthy noble families in high society.
But they only valued works by renowned artists.
Someone like him, without fame, living by painting was even harder in this world than in his previous one!
When he was in school before, he could at least earn some extra income from character designs and illustrations. Returning to art now, he didn’t know if anyone would buy his work.
From what he had learned these days, the school he attended was a diploma mill. Most students were either spiritually powerless or had levels too low to reach D. Families with some means sent their children here, but attending a genuinely good school wasn’t something money alone could buy.
As for why the original owner could study here, it was a form of government assistance.
As for what kind of work one could get after graduating from this school—sorry, the school bore no responsibility for that.
Although schooling didn’t cost money, the gene medicine—one pill per month—still required payment.
Si Nuo rubbed his face, instinctively feeling sharp pangs in his stomach.
He hadn’t eaten much but was already feeling nauseous.
The side effects were truly tormenting.
Getting off the hovercar, Si Nuo slowly made his way to school. Though appetite was poor, he had to eat something; otherwise, he wouldn’t even have the energy, and truly, he’d be done for.
Next to their school, occupying even more land, was the Empire’s top military academy. If their school was a diploma mill, the Empire’s First Military Academy was like the undisputed number one, where every student was a prodigy.
It was unbelievable that an A-grade spiritual powerhouse school and their diploma mill would be located in the same district.
It was already autumn, with a slight chill in the air. Near the military academy’s low wall, a sea of fiery red maple leaves was visible.
Every time he passed by here, Si Nuo would steal a glance. For someone who loved painting, encountering such beauty always made it hard not to stop and capture it on paper.
If he had the chance, he definitely would have done sketches here.
But for now, filling his stomach was more important.
By the time he reached the cafeteria, the meal period had passed. Si Nuo bought two vegetarian buns and headed back to the dorm.
As soon as he stepped inside, he heard Zhang Yu complain, “How are we supposed to live? Old Zhao actually wants us to submit a sketch by this Friday, and it’s already Tuesday!”
“Is it really necessary to shout so loud? I could hear you down the corridor,” Si Nuo said, pushing open the door. He slowly moved toward his bed and sat down, glancing at the boy wailing at the desk.
Zhang Yu was his roommate. Though their school was a diploma mill, the dorm conditions were quite good for Si Nuo. The two shared a room, and his roommate’s easygoing personality made him easy to get along with.
Seeing Si Nuo return pale-faced, Zhang Yu slid his chair over and leaned in. “How are you? Feeling better? No more fainting, right?”
His genetic illness wasn’t a secret, and Si Nuo didn’t hide it either. “I took the medicine. Don’t worry—I’m not going to die. Just might have to find a new job.”
He opened his pocket, bit into a bun, and mechanically chewed while asking, “Did Old Zhao mention any specific requirements for the sketch?”
“Requirements? Ha! He’s way too serious about us. Anyone who manages to submit the assignment is a saint,” Zhang Yu said, shrugging, unable to understand what Old Zhao was thinking.
Their school had fewer than 50 students studying art from freshman to senior year. This year, there were only seven of them, all latecomers who had been learning basic lines and still life for less than two months. Now they had to do sketching from life—wasn’t that just wishful thinking?
Si Nuo ate his bun, listening to Zhang Yu’s rambling, his gaze drifting out the window toward the distant maple grove.
His mind was somewhat restless now. If he could calm down through painting, maybe he could come up with a good idea.
“So does that mean we don’t have classes these next few days?”
“You’re still thinking about classes? Even if there are, I doubt anyone will show up. This is the perfect excuse, isn’t it? Si Nuo, have you thought about what you want to paint?”
Zhang Yu looked at him eagerly, clearly hoping for some inspiration from him.
Si Nuo finished his bun, balled up the wrapper and tossed it in the trash, then knocked on the window. “Look there.”
Zhang Yu got up and leaned over. “Look at what?”
Si Nuo pointed. “The maple forest. Beautiful, right?”
Zhang Yu chuckled, “Beautiful? Are you crazy wanting to paint the maple grove? You think you can pull it off?”
Since waking up in this world, Si Nuo had never fully revealed his painting skills in public.
“Even if I can’t paint it well, surely I can’t mess it up completely. Trying couldn’t hurt, right?”
“You have a point, but that’s really difficult. It’ll definitely take a lot of time. I think I’ll stick to still lifes—balls, cubes, the usual stuff I’ve practiced these past few days. I advise you don’t make it so complicated. This might be tied to final course credits; Old Zhao is probably up to something.”
Si Nuo nodded. “You’re right.”
He lay down on his bed. He just wanted to paint, but his body couldn’t cope; he needed proper rest to recover.
This body was simply too weak.
Seeing him close his eyes, Zhang Yu hesitated before asking, “You didn’t happen to run into Ren Ju and the others when you came back, did you?”
Already feeling drowsy, Si Nuo only replied, “No.”
This nap was restless. He vaguely dreamed a strange dream.
In his dream, he stood in a great hall, surrounded by people dressed in dark uniforms, their faces stern and solemn, swords hanging at their waists.
At the hall’s center stood a tall, long-legged man with his back to everyone. The sword in his hand pointed at the throne, its tip dripping fresh blood.
Si Nuo’s pupils suddenly contracted. When he tried to step forward to get a better look, the man turned sharply. His sharp black eyes pierced the air as he glared at Si Nuo and barked, “Who?!”
Author’s note:
Guan Xingchen: Oh, wife!
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