He was once again scheming there, pondering how to use the Demon-Refining Pot and his own talents to play basketball. It was just like two years ago, when he figured out his environment, decided to obtain extraordinary powers, and immediately took “novice fertilizer” to bribe the tree spirit.

He wasn’t an extreme person—he wouldn’t stubbornly refuse to turn back until he hit a dead end, nor would he try to break through the wall after hitting it. He was rather rational, understanding the importance of cutting losses. But once he made up his mind, he never hesitated to invest time and energy into trying, nor did he mind taking risks.

He ended up pondering until after eleven at night, using up all the time he usually spent training in the “world inside the pot.” While he was making a list and preparing to buy materials to build a basketball court in the “world inside the pot” for daily practice, he suddenly heard a violent banging on a door, accompanied by muffled shouting:

“Bastard, open up… Hurry up and open the door! Do you hear me? Open up right now! Hic, did you forget who lets you have food to eat?”

“Open the door, or don’t bother coming to work tomorrow!”

“Hurry up and open the door, stop hiding, I know you’re home!”

The cheap apartment had poor soundproofing. Although they weren’t kicking Autumn Whitman’s door, it didn’t sound much different. He was annoyed at having his thoughts interrupted, so he opened his door and poked his head out, only to see a drunkard—a typical Japanese man, over fifty, skinny as a monkey, now full of horse piss, reeking of alcohol so badly it was nauseating. He was furiously kicking and pounding on the door next door, looking like he was about to break in.

Autumn Whitman glanced over, then looked at the door being kicked, remembering the little girl inside who was like a small, timid animal...

He said bluntly, “Hey, you! Yeah, you! Stop acting drunk and go home!”

This kind of thing was common in Japanese slums. At night, the streets were full of drunk people. Things like banging on doors, randomly pressing doorbells, kicking trash cans, and peeing everywhere happened all the time. The police at Japanese kōban (police boxes) always kept blankets on hand; when they saw a drunkard causing trouble, they’d wrap him up to prevent harm to himself or others, then carry him back to the kōban to sober up—this was basically one of the main jobs of Japanese police.

The drunk heard the commotion, hiccupped, turned to look at him, and cursed unclearly, “Baka! Mind your own business, close your door, don’t… hic, don’t ask for a beating!”

“Baka your mother!”

As the saying goes, skill breeds courage. If he couldn’t beat a tree spirit, could he not handle you? Autumn Whitman was not the timid type. Hearing the drunk still cursing, clearly beyond reason, he simply stepped out barefoot, reached out, and shoved him on the butt: “Don’t understand human language, do you? Get lost, or I’ll throw you off the building!”

He didn’t mind meddling. As a “beacon of righteousness,” doing good deeds improved his physical abilities. He was preparing to become a basketball superstar, so even jumping 0.01 millimeters higher was worth it.

“Bastard, how dare you hit me…”

Drunk people have no sense, basically like idiots. This one was no different. He didn’t even realize the absolute difference in strength after being pushed over, and started cursing and getting up, ready to fight Autumn Whitman.

“Screw you!” Autumn Whitman wasn’t about to indulge his bad habits. He reached out and shoved again. The drunk felt a powerful force hit his chest, and he flew backward uncontrollably, crashing heavily to the ground. Even with the numbing effect of alcohol, he felt like his whole body was falling apart and couldn’t get up for a while, even vomiting.

The hallway instantly reeked. Autumn Whitman almost threw up from the stench, feeling utterly disgusted. He covered his nose and mouth, avoided the vomit, and reached out to grab the drunk by the hair to lift him up. But as he pulled, he was startled—the guy was bald and wearing a wig. With a sudden yank, he thought he’d accidentally pulled off his scalp and killed him.

Who knew being bald could be an advantage in a fight.

Autumn Whitman felt even more unlucky. He casually tossed the wig aside, grabbed the drunk by the back of his collar, and dragged him toward the stairs.

He’d only been threatening earlier. Although he lived on the second floor and throwing someone down wouldn’t kill them, it would be a different matter altogether, and he didn’t want to attract the police. If he really wasn’t afraid of the police, with two years of hard training in the “world inside the pot” and the ability to wrestle with a tree spirit, he could send this drunk to the hospital with a single punch—there was no need to keep gently pushing his chest.

After being knocked down twice and vomiting all over, the drunk was completely out of it, totally incapable of resisting, like a dead dog as Autumn Whitman dragged him downstairs, then tossed him onto the street like garbage.

That was enough. It was April now, nighttime temperatures were around ten degrees, not cold enough to kill anyone. The patrolling police would take care of him—after all, this was what Japanese police were good at.