The merfolk’s self-healing mechanism was remarkable: curling into a semi-transparent sphere, rolling across the ground until finding water, then submerging and burying itself in mud. If alive, it would enter long-term dormancy, gradually restoring itself. If the injuries were too severe, death followed, leaving a body that nourished the local aquatic ecosystem.
This passive ability, Rupert’s Tear, triggered under extreme stimuli or near-death conditions. While in the fish-ball state, no external force could harm him.
Bai Chunian knew its weakness—it could be forcibly interrupted by striking the exposed tail tip or severing the tail end. Such methods caused immense trauma, risking psychological damage and mental instability.
Gently, Bai Chunian pinched Lanbo’s tail tip, dampened by water from the dispenser. He kneaded it slightly, unsure how long Lanbo’s body could endure without immersion. Even with hydrating bandages, 48 continuous hours on land was uncomfortable.
Lu Yan and Bi Lanxing had gone to search Wind Whispers’ three team members for supplies, leaving Bai Chunian alone in the quiet dance hall. He patiently released calming pheromones and stroked the curled-up fish-ball, lightly pinching the trembling tail tip.
Finally, Lanbo responded, loosening his tail wrap slightly but trembling violently, tail tip recoiling in fear.
“Okay, open up,” Bai Chunian coaxed with higher-concentration pheromones, carefully separating the tail from his body, partly soothing, partly forcing compliance.
Lanbo resisted, baring sharp canine teeth and letting out a high-pitched, piercing growl.
Explaining that it was only an exam and that the pain was simulated through the system’s tactile feedback seemed impossible.
So Bai Chunian took a curved approach. Holding him, he pressed his lips gently to Lanbo’s golden hair. “You know how doctors perform CPR in emergencies?”
Lanbo’s eyes flickered faintly toward Bai Chunian.
Bai Chunian leaned down, pressing his lips to the merfolk’s thin ones, blowing gently.
“There, you’re alive,” he said, eyes curved in a smile. “Feeling better?”
Lanbo’s sapphire eyes blinked weakly, tiny sparks of light flickering.
Bai Chunian couldn’t help but look longer, tousling his hair. “Get up, stop playing dead.”
Lanbo slowly rose, inspecting his hands, then the healed bullet wounds on his collarbone. Confused, he suddenly noticed a patch of blue scales missing from his tail. His cheeks flared crimson. Snatching the scales back from Bai Chunian, he moistened them and painstakingly reattached them one by one.
Bai Chunian held the remaining scales, teasingly leaning against the wall. “Want them?”
Lanbo pursed his lips, shielding his flushed face, then darted along the steel chair beams like lightning, escaping.
Bai Chunian leaned back against the wall, smiling, then suddenly stilled. He stacked the three or four remaining blue, semi-transparent scales in his palm by size, wrapped them carefully in a piece of paper, forming a neat square. He brought it to his nose, inhaled their faint scent, then silently slipped them into the left chest pocket for safekeeping.
Having just wiped out two squads, the kill count on Lu Yan’s team uniform jumped to “10.” By the end of the fight, they had also confiscated eight detonation inhibitors, each extending their safety window by two hours. Including previous time, they now had over four hours of safe time, and they took five recovery serums from the bodies’ pouches.
Bai Chunian sat alone in the empty dance hall, facing rows of vacant bleachers, idly twirling his handgun on his index finger.
A new Alpha’s presence suddenly entered the room. Bai Chunian snapped back to attention. “Hmm?”
Bi Lanxing sat beside him, pushing a recovery serum toward Bai Chunian. “The other two are in the third-floor cafeteria.”
Bai Chunian murmured another “Hmm.”
Bi Lanxing asked calmly, “You were called by Uncle Jin to help Lu Yan with the exam, right?”
“Rubbish. I’m just here to scrape some points,” Bai Chunian said, lighting a cigarette.
Smart people didn’t require long explanations. Bi Lanxing continued, “Since you’re Uncle Jin’s person, you must be a trustworthy senior. I want to know—how well do you know Lanbo? How long have you known him?”
Bai Chunian blew two round smoke rings at him. “Three years, six months, and five days.”
Bi Lanxing frowned, flicking the smoke away, then thought for a moment. “Three years ago, I was training in the field with my father’s unit. We toured a bioweapons storage facility called Research Institute 109. I was too young and reckless, wandered off, and ended up lost. A few people in white coats were acting as guides, and I thought I could just follow them. Somehow, I ended up in a lab.”
“I was trying to stay hidden, wandering around the lab, playing,” he continued. “Then I saw something in a tank—a ball, just like the one Lanbo curled into earlier, with a tail sticking out.”
Bai Chunian’s expression darkened. “And then?” he asked casually.
“They chopped off that ball’s tail,” Bi Lanxing said, gesturing with his hand. “It was a long piece. I was shocked and accidentally knocked something over, got caught by the researchers, and was thrown out of the lab. But along the way, I could still hear the creature screaming.”