A Healing-Themed Artist Was Matched With a Human Weapon - Chapter 1

“Si Nuo, please proceed to Window 1 to collect your medication.”

Hearing the mechanical prompt from the broadcast, the youth sitting on the bench stood up and headed toward the window. He aimed his wristband at the machine beside it and scanned it. With a sharp “clatter,” a coin-sized pill case dropped into the tray.

This was the cheapest, lowest-grade genetic medication available. Even so, a one-month supply cost over 5,000 yuann early emptying Si Nuo’s pockets. But without this medication, he wouldn’t even survive the month.

Standing at the hospital entrance, Si Nuo pried open the case and swallowed the pills directly.

In this interstellar era, many people suffer from genetic diseases. Before the age of 18, one could receive a monthly dose through government assistance, but that welfare ended upon reaching adulthood.

A month ago, this body had just come of age. It was precisely then that Si Nuo woke up inside it. In his previous life, he was a corporate slave, constantly arguing with clients over design drafts; his original passion for painting had long been ground away by such work.

Now, he had inherited all the memories of the original owner. Because the previous owner was reluctant to spend his meager savings, he hadn’t purchased the medication on time, leading to his demise and Si Nuo’s subsequent arrival.

As soon as he felt well enough, Si Nuo had rushed to the hospital to buy this inferior genetic medication. Even though it caused weakness, loss of appetite, and frequent bouts of dizziness and nausea, it was necessary to sustain his life.

However, his biggest headache now wasn’t the side effects it was where to find money. He had no intention of returning to the part-time jobs the original owner had held. It wasn’t that he couldn’t endure hardship, but this body was in such poor condition that he feared if he continued with heavy manual labor, he would die again. And when one is alive, nobody wants to die especially since there’s no telling if the next “reset” might be even worse.

The medication began to take effect, sending a subtle warmth through his aching joints and easing that familiar, toothache-like pain. Despite the side effects, the 5,000 yuan wasn’t entirely wasted.

Heading to the maglev station, Si Nuo prepared to return to school. Yes, he was still an art student at a comprehensive arts academy.

In this world, social class is divided by mental power levels, which are determined at birth. The original owner had been abandoned by his biological parents precisely because he possessed no mental power and suffered from a genetic disease. The current peak of mental power is 3S, descending down to D-grade. From A-grade and above, individuals are plagued by irreversible mental instability the higher the grade, the more severe the condition. This remains an international dilemma; even the available medication only treats the symptoms, not the root cause. Moreover, long-term use leads to drug resistance, and the medicine is even more exorbitantly priced than genetic suppressants.

Si Nuo mused that if he didn’t have a genetic disease, living as an ordinary person would be quite fine. Mental power allows one to become formidable, but such power clearly demands a heavy price.

Si Nuo hopped onto the maglev train. His head felt heavy; the side effects were already setting in. It was off-peak hours, so the train was nearly empty. He found a vacant seat and half-closed his eyes, calculating what he could actually do in this world.

His only reliance was painting, but in a world that worships mental power, few understand or appreciate art. Commoners are too preoccupied with survival to care, and mental power users find art meaningless. Those with both the appreciation and the wealth to support it are limited to the upper-crust elite, and they only value the works of famous artists. For a nobody like him, making a living through painting was even harder than in his past life.

Back in school, he could at least pick up freelance gigs for character designs or illustrations. He wondered if anyone would be willing to pay for his work now.

From what he had gathered, the school he was attending was essentially a “diploma mill.” Most students there lacked mental power or ranked below D-grade. They were only there because their families had some wealth to spare, and they couldn’t get into better institutions. The original owner had only been able to attend through a government aid program. As for what they could do after graduation? The school took no responsibility.

Schooling was free, but the monthly genetic medication was not.

Si Nuo rubbed his face, his stomach churning with nausea. He hadn’t eaten, yet he felt sick. The side effects were truly brutal.

After getting off the train, Si Nuo walked slowly toward the school. Although he had no appetite, he had to eat; otherwise, he wouldn’t even have the physical strength to function he would truly be a “wastrel.”

Adjacent to their school was the Imperial First Military Academy. If their school was a bottom-tier institution, the First Military Academy was the undisputed top-tier, filled with the elite “children of heaven.” It was quite unexpected for an A-grade average school to be located in the same district as their “diploma mill.”

It was already autumn, and the air held a hint of chill. Near the low wall bordering the First Military Academy, one could see a forest of fire-red maple trees. Every time he passed by, Si Nuo couldn’t help but steal a glance. For an artist, encountering something beautiful always made one want to capture it on paper. If given the chance, he would definitely come here to sketch.

But for now, filling his stomach was the priority.

It was past mealtime when he reached the canteen. Si Nuo bought two vegetable buns and headed to his dormitory.

As soon as he stepped inside, he heard his roommate, Zhang Yu, complaining: “Are they trying to kill us? Old Zhao wants us to submit a sketch by Friday, and its already Tuesday!”

“Is it necessary to yell so loud? I heard you all the way down the hall,” Si Nuo pushed the door open, slowly shuffling to his bed before sitting down and looking at the boy wailing in front of the desk.

Zhang Yu was his roommate. Even though it was a low-tier school, the living conditions were quite decent. They shared a room, and Zhang Yu was easygoing and boisterous. Seeing Si Nuo return with a pale face, Zhang Yu slid his chair over: “How are you? You’re not going to faint again, right?”

His genetic condition wasn’t a secret, and Si Nuo didn’t mind: “I took my medicine. Don’t worry, I won’t die. I just need to find a new job.” He opened the bag, took a bite of a bun, and chewed mechanically. “Did Old Zhao mention any specific requirements for the sketch?”

“He’d better not have requirements. He already overestimates us. Anyone who actually hands in an assignment is doing him a favor,” Zhang Yu scoffed, unable to understand what Old Zhao was thinking.

There were fewer than 50 art students from freshman to senior year in the whole school. Their specific year had only seven, all of whom had switched majors midway and had only been learning basic lines and still lifes for two months. Asking them to go sketching now was pure fantasy.

Si Nuo listened to Zhang Yu’s grumbling while munching on his bun, his gaze drifting through the window toward the distant maple forest. His mind was in a whirl; perhaps painting could help him calm down and figure things out.

“Does that mean we don’t have to go to class these next few days?”

“You’re still worried about class? Even if we went, no one would show up. Isn’t that a ready-made excuse? Si Nuo, have you thought about what to draw?”

Zhang Yu looked at him expectantly, clearly hoping for some inspiration.

Si Nuo finished his bun, crumpled the bag, threw it in the trash, and tapped on the window. “See that?”

Zhang Yu stood up and leaned in: “See what?”

Si Nuo pointed: “The maple forest. Is it pretty?”

Zhang Yu looked at him: “It’s pretty. Wait, are you crazy? You want to draw the maple forest? Can you actually pull that off?”

Since waking up in this world, Si Nuo hadn’t fully displayed his skills in front of others.

“If I can’t draw it well, the worst that happens is I draw it badly. There’s no harm in trying, right?”

“You have a point. But it’s too hard; it’ll take forever. I think I’ll stick to still life just spheres and cubes, the stuff we’ve been drawing all week. I advise you not to make it too complicated. It might affect our final credits, and Old Zhao is a snake.”

Si Nuo nodded: “You’re right.”

He lay down on his bed. He wanted to paint, but his body wouldn’t allow it. He needed to rest and regain his strength.

This body, he thought, is truly too useless.

Seeing him close his eyes, Zhang Yu hesitated before asking: “You didn’t run into Ren Ju and his group when you came back, did you?”

Si Nuo was already drifting off. He simply replied: “No.”

His sleep was restless, filled with strange, hazy dreams. In the dream, he stood in a grand hall surrounded by men in dark uniforms, standing solemn and stern with long swords at their hips. In the center of the hall stood a tall man with long legs, his back to the crowd. The sword in his hand pointed at the throne, blood dripping from the tip.

Si Nuo’s pupils contracted. Just as he tried to step forward to see more clearly, the man with his back to him suddenly turned around. Sharp, dark eyes cut through the air, staring at him. He shouted fiercely: “Who!”